


Ever After

by Sybilina



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Stiles, Break Up, Depression, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protectiveness, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sybilina/pseuds/Sybilina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years ago, Stiles left Beacon Hills, to go to college, to get away from the pack, to try to mend a broken heart.  He thought he'd succeeded but right when graduation came around, his whole world fell apart.  Again.  There's only so many times Stiles can deal with his world falling down around him.  This was one time too many.</p><p>It isn't about getting the girl, or the guy, because romance and lovey feelings aren't a cure for depression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of wanted a depression fic that was... true to depression. Too many fics have the significant other sweeping in and kissing away the tears and suddenly, voila, everything is happy again. Not so with actual depression. I tried, I tried so hard to make this very real and true to actual depression so if I failed, by all means, tell me. Otherwise, enjoy the whumpage.
> 
> Thanks to Lazarusthefirst for the awesome beta'ing!

The smell of coffee lured Stiles down the stairs. He'd been laying in bed for the last several hours, barely able to remember even a few minutes worth of sleep, and was finally sick of the prone position. At least grabbing some coffee would be a change of pace.

He knew his dad was probably down there, pouring himself a cup, but he'd been making several cups since Stiles had been back from college, Stiles having convinced him that he'd formed an addiction that would cause intense migraines if he went cold-turkey. Which was both the truth and a lie.

He'd been drinking far too much coffee the last few weeks, if he was honest with himself. With his ADHD, it didn't really effect him the way it did other people but he'd grown to enjoy the taste. Endless study sessions with his groups from college had made him fond of coffee in all its forms. Then, after graduation, he'd ended up drinking it just to have something to do and a reason to get up every hour.

Shaking his head to dispel the memories, he reached towards the handrail with his right arm before his brain caught up with him. He winced and held his arm against his stomach protectively at the inevitable jolt of pain.

Just outside the kitchen, Stiles stopped at the doorway, blinking and unable to comprehend what he was seeing for a moment. His dad was standing at the counter, holding a mug of coffee and looking at bit like he had that time Stiles had made a surprise visit home and caught his father with a bowl of ice cream. And there was Derek, standing right next to him, also holding a mug of coffee. Derek had the nerve to look challenging, though, as opposed to his father's sheepishness, as if Derek was daring Stiles to say something.

He motioned back and forth between them with his left hand, ignored Derek for the moment. "What's going on?" he asked hesitantly.

Derek nodded at him with his chin. "What happened to your arm?" His father carefully avoided looking at Stiles, intent on his coffee which was still steaming.

Stiles stared at him for a moment before deciding that no, he did not need this kind of drama this early on a Sunday morning. He spun on his heel and left the room without another word.

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_(two weeks previous)_

  _It was their last weekend at college. Finals were over. Classes were over. Graduation ceremony was the next day. All Stiles wanted to do was sleep for a year but Clarissa, her energy surpassing even Stiles levels, was still packing up their things and dismantling the bigger furniture for them to load into the truck the next day._

_Stiles collapsed on the bed as Clarissa picked up the blankets she'd tossed to the floor earlier, his eyes following her even when all they wanted to do was close. Her hair was in a sloppy braid, twisted and pinned onto her head. Stiles contemplated undoing it, loving the way it would cascade over her shoulders, but decided that would cost too much energy, of which he was sorely lacking._

“ _Leave it for tomorrow,” he whined. Never was he lacking enough energy to speak. “Come cuddle now.”_

_She didn't even spare him a glance. “Actually, everyone else is gone already. I set up the air mattress downstairs and put in the first disc of Doctor Who.”_

_Stiles sat up, eyes wide._

_She turned and held up a finger. “The only way we indulge is if you help me dismantle the bed and you pay for the pizza.”_

“ _Done – wait. I choose the toppings.”_

_She narrowed her eyes at him. Clarissa seemed to think if even a sliver of a slice lacked meat, then it didn't have enough meat on it. As much as Stiles liked a girl who wasn't ashamed of liking her meat, he was a big supporter of pineapple on pizza. “No pineapple,” she said._

_He groaned, though he wasn't surprised, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “All right, compromise – no pineapple. All other toppings I choose.”_

_Clarissa stuck out her hand and they shook. Then Stiles pulled._

_She stumbled into the space between his legs and put a hand on his shoulder to keep from toppling onto him the rest of the way._

“ _I need some motivation,” he pouted._

“ _I'm not sure a make-out session will be proper motivation to dismantle a bed after a week of finals,” she said with a grin. His eyes caught the shine of her lips from where she's just touched up her lip-gloss, which tasted of strawberries. His mouth watered._

_Stiles hummed. “You may be right. We won't know until we try, though, right?” He fingered the button of her jeans, batting his eyes as he looked up at her._

_Clarissa threaded her fingers through his hair, letting a finger trail his earlobe just right to make his eyelids droop. Damn her for knowing that spot. Then she pulled his hair, tipping his head back. “Bed. Now.”_

_Stiles smiles widely, wiggling his eyebrows._

_She lifted her own eyebrows, unamused._

“ _All right, all right.” He pulled himself up by her belt loops, stealing a kiss once he got to his feet. “I couldn't resist.”_

_She smirked and grabbed his phone from his pocket. “No pizza until after we dismantle the bed.”_

“ _But -”_

“ _Ah, ah. The quicker we do the bed, the quicker we get the pizza, okay?”_

“ _I'd rather do you,” Stiles said._

“ _Later. Or not at all,” she threatened._

“ _All right, all right, no need to go to extremes.”_

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 After leaving the kitchen, Stiles realized he still didn't have a cup of coffee. He paused briefly at the bottom of the stairs before shaking his head. No way was he going back in the kitchen after that sight. And he certainly wasn't about to go back upstairs – that felt too much like admitting defeat. He grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door.

Out in his car, his dark blue Honda Civic that he'd finally broken down and bought after his jeep left him stranded in a snowstorm for a second time (his dad finally got him AAA with the promise that he'd buy a new car), he noticed a person-sized shape sitting in the passenger seat.

“How exactly did you get from my kitchen to my car faster than me without me knowing and not even be mildly winded?”

“You haven't been gone that long to forget that I'm a werewolf.” Derek held his phone up with one hand, eyes still focused straight ahead. “You forgot this.”

“There was no forgetting,” Stiles said. He ignored it, seeing how taking it from Derek required use of his right arm, which was laughable, or reaching awkwardly with his left, which, no. “There was intentionally abandoning. A mildly regrettable sacrifice. Phone would have understood.” He reached over with his left arm and shifted into gear, letting the car roll gently into the street. Out of the corner of his eye, he could tell Derek was scrutinizing him.

“What if you'd gotten into an accident?”

“Hopefully, I would be dead and the phone wouldn't matter.”

Silence followed. Stiles didn't even look over to see the furrow of Derek's eyebrows – he knew Derek's expression all the same.

Stiles cleared his throat. “You can put it in the cup holder.”

“That wasn't funny,” Derek said as he put the phone down, clearing out the spare change and paperclips in the way.

“Wasn't meant to be.”

“What's going on with you?”

Stiles spared him a glance. “Excuse me?”

“What's going on with you?” Derek repeated, slower this time.

“Oh, I see. You mistake my request to be excused for a request to repeat yourself due to either a lack of understanding or a lack of hearing. Mind you, this is understandable considering how loud the music is,” of which there was none, “and how stupid I am, despite the 3.7 GPA that I just graduated with, but I regret to inform you that I both heard and understood your question.”

“And?”

Stiles chuckled, feeling his hackles start to rise. “And when I said excuse me, what I really meant was, who the fuck do you think you are? Thing is, I was hoping you understood social cues and verbal tones a little better and would back the fuck off once you realized you overstepped the boundaries. Let me spell it out for you – you lost the right to ask, 'what's going on with you?' a long ass time ago. Now get the fuck out of my car.”

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 “So, you and Derek Hale are buddies now?” Stiles asked, eyeing his dad over the rim of his glass of water.

Four years in college might have driven a wedge between the two Stilinskis, either due to distance or due to lack of communication, but Stiles never lost the ability to corner the Sheriff. To be fair, he'd learned the trick from the Sheriff himself.

Stiles had offered to take the Sheriff out for dinner, his treat, which the Sheriff had agreed to with the condition that Stiles set up an appointment to get his arm looked at. Stiles knew it was broken and he'd also known it was just a matter of time before his father either convinced him or strong-armed him into going to get it looked at, so he didn't really put up much of a fight about it. He already had a pretty decent lie concocted, anyway.

The Sheriff nearly choked on his salad at Stiles's question. Stiles waited patiently, watching his father closely the entire time. They hadn't even gotten to the main course yet but Stiles figured it was a story that would probably take a long time to tell.

“You should talk to Derek,” he said finally.

“I'm talking to you, Dad.”

The Sheriff's eyes refused to meet his. It was as good of a confirmation as Stiles figured he was going to get but he decided to dig in a little more, anyway.

“So you know. About Derek. About the Pack.” Stiles refrained from saying too much. The way the Sheriff's eyes refused to meet his meant not only that yes, he did know about the Pack but also that he knew Stiles knew about the Pack. How much his father knew about his involvement was questionable, though, and Stiles really didn't want to let on too much.

“You need to talk to Derek,” his father said again.

“I'd really rather not talk to Derek, Dad. Derek and I don't really talk. Anyway, I'm talking to my dad. Or does the Pack now have rules against talking with me?”

“You don't talk to Derek? Really, Stiles? Besides the fact that he went with you this morning to get coffee, I seem to remember hearing numerous rumors from your high school days of you driving around with him all over town. So maybe you should tell me _your_ connection with Derek before I tell you mine.”

It should have felt like a slap in the face, finding out how many rumors had actually spread around the town all those years ago. But it didn't. “So they didn't even tell you.”

“Oh you're going to get snippy for them being secretive and yet, you're the one who's held these secrets for years?”

“Really, Dad? Now that you know the secrets, can you really blame me?”

His father sighed, put down his utensils, and ran a hand through his hair. “What didn't they tell me, Stiles?”

“Well, Dad, what exactly _did_ they tell you?”

“You're testing my patience right now.”

“Why do you think I brought you to a fancy, crowded restaurant?”

The Sheriff narrowed his eyes at Stiles, regarding him with a new sense of intensity and wariness. It nearly broke Stiles's heart to see his own father look at him like that, but then, Stiles felt pretty numb.

Then it dawned on Stiles. The way his father had looked in the kitchen, letting Derek answer Stiles's question. Deferring to Derek. Stiles swallowed. “You're part of the Pack.”

Red seeped into the Sheriff's cheeks and Stiles had to look away. “Not like the others are. But... yes.”

As in, he was still human. They were trying to keep blatant words like 'werewolf' and 'still human' out of the conversation but they seemed to be on the same page. Still, Stiles felt suddenly nauseous.

Derek had forcefully, humiliatingly ejected Stiles from the Pack, to protect him or some other equally ridiculous reason, but turned around, told the Sheriff all about them, and accepted him into the Pack?

Yes, Stiles was definitely going to be sick.

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  _It was unfortunate that the Sheriff couldn't stay more than a day, really only having time for the graduation and a quick dinner. Stiles didn't mind, though – considering he was the Sheriff, and Beacon Hills wasn't exactly a peaceful paradise, he was glad he'd come at all._

_Besides, Clarissa was going to come for a visit later in the month, anyway. He was already planning an elaborate dinner to introduce the two of them._

_He'd even gone so far as to ask Lydia what was the best jewelry store in Beacon Hills._

_Stiles had loaded up the car with stuff from the apartment, having worked out a deal that his dad would drive that back home. Stiles was going to load up the Uhaul and drive that back on Monday. It would have been better for Clarissa and him to find jobs and move into a post-college apartment but Clarissa wanted to move back home for a few months and save some money. Sure, the distance would be tough, but a few months for financial security was worth it. Besides, it was the days of Skype and unlimited texting. They'd be fine._

_Sunday morning, he pouted after his father had driven off in his Civic (it wasn't his baby the way the jeep had been but they'd certainly developed a bond and Stiles would be lying if he said he didn't get a little misty eyed watching it fade down the road), but he brightened as Clarissa pulled into the parking lot. Perfect timing._

“ _Hey, baby,” he said as he captured her in a hug._

_She'd tried to dodge around him but seemed to melt into him once his arms locked around her, nuzzling into his neck as they hugged._

“ _Can tomorrow not come?” Stiles said into her hair. “Like, ever?”_

_He felt her smile against his neck. “That's impossible and illogical. I'm sure we'd get bored eventually.”_

“ _I doubt it. I know ways to keep busy.” He kissed the side of her mouth, working his way to a proper kiss._

_She pulled away. A few inches short than him and yet she still managed to loom. “We have a lot of work to do, still. And you need to take a shower.”_

“ _What? I just took one a few hours ago.”_

“ _Well, take another. And give me your clothes. I'm going to do one last load of laundry before I pack away the clothes.”_

“ _Oh come on, just a quickie?”_

_She grabbed his hands before they had a chance to roam and gave him a severe look. Then she kissed him, hard, licking over his teeth and stroking his tongue, before pulling away. He groaned. “That was motivation.” She spun him around so he was facing the apartment and smacked his ass. “Get moving.”_

“ _So bossy,” he mumbled with a fake pout._

“ _I'll show you bossy,” she said threateningly._

_He ran into the apartment, laughing as he heard her give chase._

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Derek was standing on their porch when they pulled in. His father must have texted Derek when Stiles had bolted to the bathroom.

Neither of them had even touched the main course. His father had just gotten it to go. Stiles felt a faint pang of guilt – his father had paid while he was in the bathroom even though it was supposed to be his treat.

They hadn't spoken the entire ride home.

Stiles felt a little like he had in the days before they'd diagnosed his ADHD, after his mom died, when all the chemicals in his brain were working against him. He couldn't keep a grip on a single train of thought and all the small trains he did get to ride briefly sent him tumbling down a tunnel that he was pretty sure had no end.

Scary thing was, he couldn't even bring himself to care.

“I'll put these in the fridge,” his father said, grasping obviously at the chance to escape whatever showdown or shouting match that he was convinced was about to go down.

He could feel whatever tethers had been holding him down slowly fade and break until his mind felt like it was drifting. So many things had happened, not just four years ago but even since then, college years, and most especially the events in the few weeks. Stiles was surprised he was still standing under the weight of it all.

Two words came to his mind, suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere but Stiles knew they'd been dancing at the edges for a while now, waiting for their moment to shine and once they did, once they announced themselves loud and clear in a shower of sparkles and lightning bolts, Stiles felt a sense of peace settle over him, the likes of which he hadn't felt in what seemed like decades.

_I'm done._

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He felt himself get in the car, sure, remembered driving away, but it seemed like he wasn't even a part of his own body. Like he was going through the motions, but he didn't even know what the end goal was.

Until he threw the car in park and realized he was on Widow's Peak.

Suicide Cliff.

He didn't even jump when he realized Derek was sitting next to him, though he didn't remember having company.

Had they spoken? Had Derek tried talking to him? Did Stiles answer?

Currently, Derek was still and quiet. Stiles didn't know what to make of that so he didn't make anything of it.

He got out, popping the trunk to get access to the lawn chair he always kept in there, just in case. Then he set one up, a little awkward without the use of his right arm but somehow he made do, sat in it, and went swimming in his thoughts, a tidal pool he'd avoided completely for the last two weeks.

Mostly, he was trying to wait Derek out. There was a small chance Derek didn't know what Widow's Peak's nickname was and he'd get bored and leave.

If Stiles could be patient about anything, this was it.

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_Finally, they were done packing, only some dishes and odds and ends left to go, and Stiles had managed to get Clarissa in bed finally. It was weird making out half naked on an air mattress in the living room but it was also new and exciting._

_As he reached around to unclasp her bra, she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed. “Wait.”_

“ _Wait? Really? Now?”_

“ _I need to talk to you about something.”_

_Stiles let his hands fall to her hips. Usually, he'd play with her love handles, tickling and reveling in the way he could stroke his thumb just right to reduce her to a giggling ball of adorableness, but she seemed tense and serious, so he resisted. “If you're pregnant, this is a really bad time to tell me.”_

_She smiled and kissed his nose. “I'm not pregnant.”_

“ _Then can it wait?”_

_She shook her head, her hair waving and tickling his arms._

“ _All right. Have at it.”_

“ _There's no easy way to tell you this.” She bit her lip and he rubbed her back, feeling sympathy immediately. He didn't know what was coming but he didn't like that look on her face. “I'm a werewolf.”_

_His hands stopped rubbing._

“ _I'm an Alpha, actually. My Pack was originally from New York but we all came here for school.” She was staring at him intensely, shyly almost, trying to gauge his reaction._

_Stiles felt his brain stuttering to a stop though a part of him was screaming to pay attention. “Okay,” he said. It wasn't a deliberate use of his vocal chords. In fact, it sounded breathy and faint and he was pretty sure his brain had thrown things onto auto pilot while the rest of him digested this information._

“ _Okay? That's all? This is okay with you?”_

_Stiles didn't know what to say to that. No? Hell no? What? What the fuck? How? All these questions rushed through his brain but his brain started to form possible answers to those questions and none of the answers led to good things. So he just stared, trying to work saliva back into his mouth._

“ _Baby? You still with me?” she asked. Her lips were on his cheek and he stiffened, remembering all the times she'd nuzzled into his neck. The countless hickies she'd given him._

_Then a war started in his brain. One side screaming that he was that close, THAT CLOSE, to getting bitten by a werewolf and how dare she never at least warn him. The other side was pleading that, out of four years friendship, two of those dating, she had never harmed him and he had never found himself in mortal danger. Emotional danger, perhaps, just after he'd started school and been kicked out of the Hale Pack,which wasn't her fault at all. He hadn't encountered any killer Alpha Packs, no kanimas, not even Hunters. And how many people could you seriously say, “I'm a werewolf,” to and expect the relationship to survive? Could he blame her?_

“ _Yeah,” he mumbled. Then he cleared his voice. “Quite the baggage to unload on a guy after two years. Isn't that at least second or third date material?”_

_She kissed his forehead, his eyelids, his temples, muttering apologies the entire time. Then she whispered, “I need you to bring me to Derek.”_

_And he felt himself go cold._

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“What's going on, Stiles?”

If Stiles had been looking at him, he certainly would have seen Derek wince at his choice of words.

“I've never seen you sit so still and so quiet for so long,” Derek continued, trying to cover up his blunder.

A thousand comebacks raced through Stiles's mind. _There are a lot of things you've never seen me do_ or _It's funny how you think you still know me_. None of these made it to his mouth, though he could taste the bile as they fought with his vocal chords. He let the silence stretch and build instead, into something that would usually make him uncomfortable but today, somehow, it felt right. All he could hear was the beating of his heartbeat in his ears and the occasion bird call.

To him, it felt right, the silence. It was exactly what he needed to get into the right mindset. Derek, on the other hand, was getting increasingly tense and angry. The little tell-tales in his face were transporting Stiles back in time, to when he knew what every line on Derek's face meant, to when he knew exactly where Derek was at any given moment in the day, to a time when he could actually pick up his phone, knowing Derek was dialing his number at that very second.

It reminded him of Clarissa and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“What did you do to your arm, anyway?” Derek asked him softly.

Stiles opened his eyes to glare at him questioningly.

“You looked like you were in pain,” Derek said defensively. “Your arm?”

Stiles shook his head slightly and looked straight ahead. The sun was setting behind them, though the air was still pleasantly warm. In fact, Stiles could feel the mosquitoes already feasting on his bare arms.

“Stiles!” Derek waved his arms, short jerky movements that hinted at violence. Typical Derek. He really hadn't changed much in the last few years.

Stiles relented, settling his eyes on Derek as if to say, “What?” He was finding it more and more difficult to muster the will to speak. After all, didn't most people complain that he talked too much?

“What is the matter with you?” Derek yelled. “Don't you have questions? Are you angry at me? At your dad? Why aren't you talking!?”

“What is there to say?” Stiles said before he could stop himself. He just wanted Derek to go away. Talking now would only encourage him to stay.

“You... Stiles, you always have something to say!”

“Not to you.”

“What?”

“I haven't had much to say to you in a long time.”

Stiles heard the click of Derek's mouth shutting. “Then Scott? You want to talk to Scott?”

“What makes you think I want to talk to anyone right now?”

“You got to talk to someone.”

“Why?”

“Because you smell... off.” Stiles regarded him with creased eyebrows. “I don't know, Stiles, your smell is just... wrong!”

“You don't have to be here,” Stiles said softly.

Derek's shoulders sank, as if a lot of the fight, though not all, had seeped out of him. “I think I do.”

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“ _Derek who?”_

“ _Don't play dumb, Stiles.” She bit his ear, playfully, and everything suddenly felt surreal. He didn't want to be half naked, he certainly didn't want a werewolf biting his ear, especially one who'd been lying to him for two years. He felt like the oxygen had been drained from the room._

_How did she know Derek? How did she know he knew Derek? If she knew all along that he knew Derek, if she even suspected that he knew about werewolves, then why keep it a secret for so long? Why did she want him to take her to Derek?_

_Gently, he pushed her away, his hands on her hips. He needed room to breathe._

_She grabbed his hands, bringing them to her lips. “Stiles? What's wrong?”_

_A lurching shred of hope swung by and he grabbed at it. “Why do you want to see Derek?” Maybe they were long lost relatives. Maybe she'd just lost touch with him. Maybe she used to date him and needed to clear up loose ends before things got really serious with Stiles._

“ _I'm going to kill him.”_

_His stomach clenched and he tried again to push her away. She wouldn't budge. “How...” was all he managed to get out._

“ _How what, baby?”_

_He shook his head. He didn't know what he was trying to ask. Nothing was making sense._

“ _Okay. I'm sorry I sprung this on you. We'll take it slow, okay? Want me to start from the beginning?”_

_He nodded. She was still holding his hands, kissing his fingers and knuckles one by one. Her legs were on either side of him and the air mattress felt like it could use a top-off. It didn't feel real. Nothing did._

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“Fine. I'll talk,” Derek grumbled.

There was another lawn chair in the trunk which Derek helped himself to. While he was preoccupied, Stiles thought about taking his chance. For some reason, his legs felt like lead and refused to move. Then Derek was setting up the chair beside him and Stiles acknowledged another missed opportunity with relative ease. Considering how often he'd been alone the past two weeks, there were plenty of future opportunities to kill himself.

“How have you been?” he asked once he sank down into the chair.

Fixing Derek with a stare, Stiles had to admit that if he wasn't currently plotting his own suicide, he'd find Derek's inability to lead conversation laughable.

Derek crossed his legs and sighed, obviously realizing what he'd done. “We told your dad -”

“We?” Stiles asked.

There was a moment where Derek looked like he might argue. Then he caved. “Fine. I told your dad about werewolves about a year after you left.”

Stiles felt the phrasing of that like a stab wound. _After he left_. As if college wasn't a legitimate reason for leaving the state. As if he'd abandoned his father.

“There was a dispute,” Derek continued, “between the Pack and the Argents. We needed a middle man.”

A laugh seemed to explode out of Stiles. “You didn't have me anymore so you went to my dad. Like, being a middle man is what Stilinski's are good for.”

“Stiles, we didn't go to your dad, we went to the Sheriff.”

“First off, stop saying 'we.' You're the Alpha. Take some fucking responsibility. Secondly, he doesn't stop being my dad when he puts on his uniform.”

Stiles could tell Derek was struggling with his temper over the first part of what he'd said. Then he swallowed whatever argument he was going to make. “Fine, but he doesn't stop being the Sheriff just because he's your father.”

“Derek, my point is that Erica has parents. Lydia has parents. Melissa has been in The Know for a long time now. Also, um, Deaton?”

“None of them would have worked.”

“And you tried each and every one of them before going to my father, right?”

“Stiles, you weren't here, you don't know what it was like!”

“Why are you trying to make this seem like it's my fault?”

“It's no one's fault!” Derek yelled, throwing up his hands again. “That's the point I'm trying to make! We did the best we could, yes 'we' because I don't run my Pack like a Dictatorship. It was a split second decision and he just so happened to be at the right place at the right time.”

“What happens when he's at the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“He's a Sheriff, Stiles. A Sheriff with werewolf friends.”

“You put him in unnecessary danger.” It wasn't a question.

“Okay, two things – your father is the Sheriff. He chose to protect people for a living. Sometimes that means getting into danger. Besides that, no, I don't. I try to keep him and everyone else safe in this pack. Him more than the others, if you want the truth.”

“Why him? Because he's human?”

“Because he's your father.” Derek sat back and seemed to regard Stiles. “Fine, you want the truth? That first year you were gone, your father looked like shit. Apparently his son, his only living family member, practically abandoned him and wasn't even keeping in touch. He was so alone, Stiles. I'm an Alpha. It appealed to my sense of family. Especially since it was your dad.”

There it was. The truth, the awful painful truth. His father felt abandoned by Stiles and so adopted a new family, who readily adopted him back.

Stiles could see it now – Boyd and Isaac grocery shopping for his father, cooking enough to feed the entire Pack and then some, making sure there was only lean white meat in the meals, plenty of fruit juice in the fridge, veggies with every meal, and if anyone ever found ice cream or cookies in the house, they'd bring them to Derek's and feast on them with the other wolves.

It was sickening knowing that he probably wasn't even exaggerating. He'd gotten to know the Pack during the end of his High School years. And he'd noticed a suspicious lack of sugary sweets in the house since he'd gotten home from college. If things were healthy between Stiles and his father, the Sheriff would have intentionally left a box of cookies out in the open just to hear Stiles rant and gripe about it.

What it came down to was that Stiles was an ex – an ex-friend, an ex-boyfriend, an ex-son. He didn't even belong in his own family anymore. The Sheriff didn't need him. Hell, he'd deferred to Derek regarding his own son, all but running inside to get away from him when they'd gotten home from the restaurant.

Did he even have a place in Beacon Hills anymore? Was he even wanted?

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 “ _I smelled him on you the first time you passed by me.” Clarissa was stroking his fingers, soothing him. He looked at her face, remembering the hundreds, thousands of times they'd lain together or sat across from each other, the times he'd lovingly dedicated every feature into his memory. Her perfect, natural eyebrows. The gold flecks in her green eyes. The jut of her cheekbones and the shadows they created. The way her long brown hair framed her face._

_It seemed now, as she recounted their last four years together, he was seeing a whole new person, mashed and shlumped together with the old, familiar Clarissa he knew and loved._

“ _I didn't know it was him at first. It was slightly different. Less tinged with flowers. But I knew it was familiar. After we started talking, you mentioned the name Derek and it clicked.”_

“ _What, exactly, clicked?” he asked softly._

_She kissed him then, on the mouth, and pouted when he didn't return it. “Everything. Stiles, when he was here, with Laura, he wasn't a good guy. They killed members of my pack. I wasn't the Alpha at the time but because of them, I had to step into the role.”_

“ _If he killed your Alpha, wouldn't he -”'_

“ _He didn't, though.” Her face twisted, a mix of revulsion and sorrow. He squeezed her hands, instinctively wanting to make that look go away. She gave him a tiny smile in thanks. “They did something, something irreversible to our Alpha. He wasn't dead but... he couldn't function as an Alpha.”_

_Stiles knew that was a recipe for disaster._

“ _That was the least of the damage they caused,” she said softly._

“ _So these last few years -”_

“ _Stiles, no, don't go down that road.”_

“ _No, wait,” he said, grabbing at a flicker of anger. That was the only way he'd make it through the conversation without breaking down. “It's true, though. The only reason we're even together is because you wanted me to lead you to Derek.”_

_She looked him in the eyes and sighed. “Bigger picture, yes. But Stiles, I really like you.”_

_That one word shattered him. Like. She really liked him. He didn't major in Psych with a minor in English to not realize how much weight that one word held. She really liked him._

_But she didn't love him._

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 “Why do you even care?” Stiles asked quietly.

“What?” Derek asked, anger still very much present in his voice.

“Why do you care? I remember,” and Stiles could feel his lips moving, feel the words tumbling out of his mouth despite every nerve and muscle screaming for him to shut up, “I remember when you broke up with me. You told me you didn't love me. That I needed to go to college and have a life because the Pack was moving on, growing up, and there was no place for me there anymore. And you were so cold about it, too. Doing it right there in front of the Pack, like you were daring me to argue with you. And no one in the Pack stood up for me, or even called me for weeks. Even then, it was only Lydia and Scott. So please, enlighten me – why are you here with me now, Derek? Why are you talking to me? Why are you pretending to care?”

Derek looked like he wanted to say something, getting a pained and constipated look on his face, and Stiles had to look away. He didn't want pity or half-hearted apologies.

“Imagine if Kate were here now and you were in my place,” Stiles said.

Derek's eyes flashed and Stiles felt a wave of, what, pride? Relief? He didn't want apologies or closure from Derek – he wanted to piss him off. “This is nothing like Kate,” Derek said through gritted teeth.

“Not literally but figuratively, yeah.” Kate had killed Derek's entire family. Derek had stolen all of Stiles's.

“It's nothing like and you know it.”

“Well, you did fuck a teenager and break his heart.”

Derek was standing now, eyes flashing red on and off, his whole body trembling.

“Truth hurts, doesn't it?”

Derek started spluttering angry retorts before saying, “I can't be here right now.”

Stiles could feel a small sense of adrenalin – this was it. Derek was going to leave and Stiles was going to get his chance.

Derek stood up but didn't move. His entire body was trembling. “I wasn't lying.” Stiles waited for him to go on, patiently and silent. “I wasn't lying when I said I loved you.”

“Oh? So you just conveniently fell out of love with me right before I went to college?”

Derek's head tilted, his jaw locked, and his breathing hitched like he was in pain. “Stiles -”

“If you think what you did,” Stiles said, interrupting Derek before he could finish his sentence, “was better than what Kate did, then you're a lot fucking stupider than I gave you credit for.”

Derek visibly shook with anger before yelling a growl of rage and taking off down the hill, eyes fully red.

Stiles let out a breath. He'd gone a little overboard and he felt mildly guilty about it, but once they found his letters on the computer, maybe Derek would understand, so he pushed it out of his mind. For now, all he could think was one thought:

This is it.

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 “ _Babe,” Stiles said, the word feeling both familiar and foreign on his tongue, “how long ago was this?”_

_Clarissa pulled back away from him and gave him a hard stare, similar to the ones she gave him when he said he forgot to buy wine at the store. The juxtaposition knocked the wind out of him._

“ _Stiles, you're asking me to forgive and forget the fact that Laura and Derek Hale tore my Pack to pieces. Literally, in some cases.”_

_Stiles swallowed. Derek said he'd never killed anyone. Or did he say that? Maybe Stiles just said it so often, he'd convinced himself that Derek had said it. Derek had never corrected him about it so he'd assumed it was true. But what if it wasn't?_

“ _Hey, Clarissa, look. I'm just saying Laura's dead. She's been dead for years. And Derek's good now. However bad he might have been in New York, he's good now.”_

“ _Good? How can you say that after what he did to you?”_

_Stiles flinched. He'd told her he'd been with Derek, that Derek had been his first love. For her to use it against him now shook him. “All's fair in love and war,” he said, though he struggled with the words. The breakup still stung. “Besides, breaking up with people doesn't make you a bad person.”_

“ _I heard he was turning minors, Stiles. High school students.”_

“ _Not anymore, he's not.”_

_She looked at him incredulously. “Why are you defending him?”_

“ _Because I know him. He's not evil. He's turned his life around.”_

“ _I will never attend my brother's wedding because of him. My nieces have to grow up without a father because of him. Stiles, you don't understand. They cannot rest in peace until he's dead.” She got up to pace._

“ _Clarissa,” he whispered. “Revenge isn't going to make you feel better.”_

_She scowled at him. “It's not about revenge. It's about justice. It's about making sure he never does this again.”_

“ _I'm telling you he won't!”_

“ _How can you promise that? What if he does, Stiles? What if he goes off the rails again? What if someone else dies or gets hurt? Are you comfortable with having that burden on your shoulders? Because you'll have to share in the blame.”_

“ _Yes,” he said. “Absolutely. I will take that blame.”_

_Her eyes got all soft and pitiful then. “Stiles. You've got to stop that. You can't blame yourself for every bad thing that happens.”_

“ _You just said -”_

“ _I know what I just said, damn it!” Then she lowered her voice and stared at him. “What does he mean to you that you're willing to share his burdens so readily?”_

_Ice sliced through his veins. “We have history, Clarissa. Not just the dating bit but also... he's saved my life. Countless times. He's protected Beacon Hills from Alphas and Hunters and Rogue werewolves.”_

“ _Really?” she said, clearly not believing._

_He stood up. “Yes, really. I love you. Not him. I am over him. I am so over him, I'm in a hot air balloon. I'm an astronaut orbiting Pluto over him.” Wrapping his arms around her, he laced his fingers behind her back._

“ _Then let me kill him.” She put a finger to his lips when he started to argue. “I'll protect Beacon Hills instead. I'll move there with you. I'm pretty good at the Alpha thing, I'll take care of the Betas. Just... let me have Derek.”_

_And Stiles knew at that moment that she wasn't going to let it go. She was going to kill Derek one way or another, with his permission or not. And her plan, to be Alpha to Derek's Betas, he knew that would never work. He couldn't see Scott or Isaac baring their throats to Clarissa after she killed Derek. They would fight tooth and claw and, if they couldn't beat her, they'd leave, become Omegas, if they even survived the battle. And the Argents had not just a truce but a pretty solid alliance, hard earned and not without a little painful pride swallowing, with the Hale Pack these days – they wouldn't sit back for Clarissa or even accept her. No doubt his dad would get suspicious, if not completely involved, in a seriously baffling case of murdered Argents and 20-something year old kids._

_And Stiles? Would be caught in the middle of it all._

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 Stiles counted to sixty before standing. He knew how quickly werewolves could move – a minute was plenty of time. His legs tingled and it only occurred to him then how long he'd sat without moving.

Derek must have been more patient than he'd originally thought.

The sun was completely gone, everything now shrouded in darkness.

Images danced in front of his eyes, the setting nighttime working as eyelids and creating nightmare visions whether his eyes were open or closed.

Kissing Clarissa. Dancing with Clarissa. Making love to Clarissa.

His father's eyes, sliding away from his. His father's hand around the glass of liquor after his mother's death.

Derek kissing him. Derek slamming him against the wall, knee between his legs. Derek staring him straight in the eyes, telling him he didn't belong in the Pack, in front of the Pack, breaking up with him as he plain old broke him. Silence as he walked out, numb with a foreshadowing of despair.

Nights of staring at the phone reading 'No Messages.'

More blood than any 21 year old should ever have memories of.

His mother.

It seemed every vision, every memory, brought another immeasurable amount of weight onto his shoulders.

His legs trembled and he knew if he didn't jump now, he'd collapse. If he collapsed, he wouldn't get up.

He closed his eyes and took a step forward.

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  _She'd put her shirt back on and wandered into the kitchen. The few minutes she was gone felt like an eternity._

_If he didn't do anything, she would go to beacon Hills, find Derek, and one or both of them would die, along with members of both Packs. His father would have a baffling case of too many young people dead and the two main players having only one thing in common – Stiles._

_If he called Derek and warned him, they would set up an ambush. If they didn't end up killing Clarissa, she would be a constant threat for the rest of their lives – not just to the Hale Pack, but to Stiles as well, for betraying her._

_Or he could talk her out of it. A lost cause, he knew, but neither of the other options seemed viable._

_He pulled on his own shirt and accepted the beer she handed to him._

_It was so odd, he realized, how most other college graduates were applying for jobs, proposing to their girlfriends, applying for graduate schools, partying even, and yet, here he was, trying to think ten steps ahead to ensure the least amount of deaths possible._

_It made him nostalgic._

“ _It's kind of sad how well I can read you, and you didn't even know I was a werewolf,” Clarissa said._

_That stung._

“ _Stiles, don't try to stop me. I want you to help me, to be on my side, but I don't necessarily_ need _you. I will tie you up and leave you here so you don't get in the way. And then I'll probably bite you. I've grown fond of you. I'd hate to lose you over something like this.”_

_An image flashed of him tied up, unable to call Derek, or move, his imagination playing out the death scenes of everyone he'd ever loved. He was reminded of the kanima and the first time it paralyzed him._

“ _I'll understand, though. You're a Keep The Peace kind of guy. I get that. I like that. But please, don't get in my way.”_

_That sounded like a threat and instinct kicked in, knocking away the mind-numbing fear. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” The beer splashed as he slammed it down on the counter. “No, you are not going to Beacon Hills to kill Derek, and yes, I will fight you on this, every step of the way. Think about what you're saying! You sound like a lunatic!”_

_Stiles had forgotten how quickly a werewolf could move, or how easy it was for an Alpha to interpret healthy debate as a challenge for power. He heard an unhealthy crack as she grabbed his arm, twisting it up behind his back, and slammed his face into the counter. Then red hot tendrils of pain snaked through his arm and into his shoulder._

“ _Damn it,” she muttered. “Did Derek not teach you anything? Do not take that tone with an Alpha, Stiles.”_

“ _Derek didn't have to teach me anything,” he said through gritted teeth, his cheek rubbing uncomfortably against the counter. “It's not my fault you've got so little impulse control.”_

“ _Why are you baiting me?”_

“ _I'm not baiting you, it's my personality. For someone who claims to be able to read me like a book, you seem pretty clueless.”_

_She let go. “I never meant for this.” When he turned, cradling his arm to his chest, he noticed her motioning to him. “I never wanted you to get hurt.”_

“ _Kind of a ridiculous claim to make when the sole reason for dating me was to kill my ex. Tell me,” he continued over her attempt to rebut, “why now? I would have been much more willing to let you kill him four years ago.”_

“ _The timing wasn't right,” she said, waving a hand at his dismissively. “I was still young, as were my Betas. Really wanted to take care of college before taking care of Derek. I also wanted to learn more about him.”_

_Like a brick wall, it hit him that he'd never kept it a secret where he was from. For the past four years, Derek and the Pack had been in danger because of him._

“ _Oddly, you've been close-lipped about him and his Pack.”_

_He realized then that the only time he really did talk about Derek was in the beginning, before he'd started having feelings for her. Back when the break up was still fresh. “It's not polite to talk about your ex with your current girlfriend. Besides, it's hard to talk about him without accidentally talking about his being a werewolf.”_

_She nodded, understanding, and ran a hand through her hair. How he hated himself for wanting to grab that hand, to run his own fingers through he hair. Then her eyes were on his, darting to his arm, then back to his eyes. “Let me see,” she said, holding out a hand._

“ _No,” he said, backing away. Then he sighed and closed his eyes. “I think you broke it. Or sprained it. There are some ace bandages still in the bathroom upstairs.”_

“ _We should go to a hospital.”_

“ _And tell them what? That you broke my arm in an argument about wanting to commit murder? No, I don't want to deal with an ER or Urgent Care right now. It can wait until I get home.”_

“ _Okay,” she said, nodding sadly. He wanted to kick himself for his thoughts. If it had been Derek, he would have thrown him over his shoulder and carried him to an ER if he wouldn't go willingly. Of course, Derek had never physically injured Stiles, either. “I'll go grab them.”_

“ _No,” he said. “I need... let me... I'll bring them down and you can help me wrap it.”_

_She smiled sadly and nodded. A compromise. He already felt a bit like a battered woman. Doubts were seeping in. Maybe she really didn't mean to hurt him. And honestly, he did know better than to taunt a werewolf._

_In the bathroom, he found his gun, right where he'd left it taped to the toilet cover, still loaded with wolfsbane bullets._

_He made sure to flush as he took off the safety._

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A few moments went by before Stiles realized what had happened. There were arms locked around his chest, squeezing so it was difficult to breathe. There was a head on his shoulder blade digging in painfully. They were on the ground, near his lawn chair which was now tipped over. His right arm throbbed.

If the rasping breath in his ear wasn't enough to give away his identity (which it was considering Stiles had heard and felt that breath in his ear countless times for a wide variety of reasons), the smell of musk, tree sap, and mint was definitely enough.

“Derek?”

“Stiles.” Derek's voice was broken, shattered really. Stiles had never heard him sound like that before, which was saying a lot considering the different extreme situations they'd gotten into over the years. He was breathing heavy, his breath hitching, rocking both of them with the movement.

Stiles swallowed. It didn't feel real. Nothing felt real. He was going to jump off the cliff. What happened? Why was Derek there? Why did Derek stop him?

Shouldn't he be feeling something other than confusion? Regret, maybe? Sadness? Guilt? Derek was all but sobbing against his back, clinging to him like he was afraid of letting go, like if he relaxed his grip even a little, Stiles would float away.

“Stiles,” Derek said again, his voice shaking, and Stiles didn't think the arms around him could squeeze any tighter until they did. “What were you thinking?”

Stiles stared into the darkness over the cliff. “Thank God,” he said. “I was thinking, 'thank God it's over.'”

Derek's arms tightened even more. “Stiles.” This time, it was a full on sob and Stiles could feel his shirt starting to get wet.

He felt the tension in his body leave, tension he didn't even know was there until it left, and if Derek didn't have a death-grip on him, he would have collapsed onto the ground.

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“ _There's this thing that happens,” Stiles said at the kitchen doorway. Clarissa turned, noticed the gun, and met his eyes in surprise, “when people threaten my family, my town. They used to make fun of me, called me the Pack Mommy. It wasn't because I cooked the food, though I do make a mean lasagna, as you well know._

“ _Thing is, when people threaten my wolves, there's this maternal instinct that kicks in.”_

_Clarissa shook her head, eyebrows furrowing. “They're not your wolves anymore. You haven't smelled like them in years and you never talk about them. Besides, I don't want them – I want Derek. Unless... you think of yourself as his mommy?” She grimaced._

_He stared into her eyes and shook his head. “Clarissa, if another Alpha came after you, would your Betas just sit back while you ripped each other to pieces?”_

_She regarded him thoughtfully. Then she tilted her head and smile. “You're really going to shoot me to protect them? After all we've gone through? Babe, please.”_

_He kept his mouth shut. He'd learned over the years that he was much more threatening when he didn't speak. People tended to take him seriously when they didn't know what he was thinking._

_But she had a point. They'd spent most of their time together, in each other's presence, for the last two years. He knew how she liked her coffee. He knew her favorite movies and what mood she was in based on what music she was listening to. He knew Wednesday was her laundry day and that she hated Budweiser beer._

_Looking into her eyes, he felt the flood of emotions, love and fear and a hint of anger, threaten to overwhelm him. Could he shoot her, this woman he'd fallen slowly but irrevocably in love with over the course of the last four years, all to protect a group of people who had not only broken his heart but hadn't even called or checked up on him in the years following?_

_The answer made his stomach turn._

_He lifted the gun with his left hand, still cradling his right arm to his chest. “Please, Clarissa. Tell me you'll give it up. Blood doesn't need to be spilled. Give up this grudge.”_

“ _Stiles. You know I can't do that. Derek has to die.” Then she chuckled. “Babe, that would be a little more convincing if you weren't right handed.”_

“ _Clarissa, please. I don't want to do this.”_

“ _You know bullets don't actually hurt werewolves, right?”_

_Stiles sighed. She was ignoring every attempt he made to talk her down. She was settled on her course of action. Therefore, he was settled on his. “Correction: they hurt but they don't kill. Unless, of course, they're wolfsbane bullets.” He cocked the hammer back and the smile vanished from her face. “And babe? I'm the son of a Sheriff and I ran with werewolves for three years. You think I'm stupid enough to only train with my dominant hand?”_

_Her eyes flashed red and in a split second, it all came together. He knew she wouldn't hesitate to kill him. At this point, he'd proven his loyalty to the Hale Pack. She wasn't going to tie him up. The only way she was going to let him live now was by biting him, which still might end up killing him. Her fangs were already out._

_He pulled the trigger before her feet even left the ground._


	2. Chapter 2

It was a long time before either of them moved. The night air was cold but Derek was a furnace against his back. The grip had eased so Stiles could breathe again but otherwise, Derek hadn't moved for a long time. Even the shaking and the sniffling had stopped.

Finally, Derek took a deep breath and sighed before standing. He didn't let go of Stiles.

“Uh, Derek?” Stiles said softly, finding his footing only barely.

Derek buried his head into Stiles's neck for a moment before gently turning him around.

Stiles felt his jaw drop. Derek's eyes were red-rimmed, though not Alpha red, and his eyelashes were still wet.

“Tell me...” Derek swallowed. “Tell me you blacked out. That you didn't know what you were doing. Tell me you weren't going to jump. Please, Stiles.”

“Derek. You're a werewolf. You'll know the truth.”

Derek's face seemed to collapse and he pulled Stiles into a proper hug, gentle this time at the grunt of pain Stiles gave when his right arm was nudged. “Okay,” Derek said after a few more minutes. “Okay. I'll call Melissa. She'll know of a good hospital -”

“Hospital?” Stiles asked, incredulous.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling away but still holding Stiles by his arms, gently with his injured arm. “Stiles... you need help. You nearly...” Derek gulped. “You need help.”

Stiles shook his head violently. A hospital. Because of his suicide attempt. Melissa. The Pack. His dad. “No,” Stiles said, grabbing Derek's hands, ignoring the twinge in his arm. “No, no, no, no hospital, no Melissa, no, I can't -”

“Stiles, you almost jumped off a cliff!”

“No! Okay, I won't do it again, okay? No hospital, please Derek!”

“Stiles, you _need_ help! What if I hadn't been here?”

“Why _were_ you here?” Stiles yelled before he could stop himself. “No, it's okay, I'm okay, Derek, I'll be good.”

Derek blinked at him. “Stiles, you didn't break a lamp here!”

“I didn't break anything! That should count for something!”

“Because I stopped you!” Derek yelled.

“Please,” he pleaded. “Please, Derek, no hospital, my dad... I can't...”

“How do you think he would have felt if you'd jumped tonight?”

“I didn't though!”

Derek threw up his hands but quickly grabbed onto Stiles again.

“Okay,” Stiles said, conceding briefly, his mind reeling. “Don't... I won't be alone. I'll always be with someone, how about that? I wouldn't ever do anything with someone else in the room.”

“Are you even hearing yourself right now?”

“Are you?” Stiles shot back. “You want to commit me, right? You know what they do in hospitals? Therapy. And group therapy. Where you talk about your problems. The majority of my problems are werewolf related! How do you expect me to get better in a hospital where I can't even talk about my problems?”

A shred of doubt entered Derek's eyes.

“Besides, do you even know the procedure for getting someone committed? You need a doctor's report, my approval, and I'll probably be out in a day or two anyway. And that's only if you convince them that I'm a danger. It's my word against yours. I have practice lying about being happy and you have a record.”

“So you're willing to lie your way out of getting help?” Derek asked softly.

Stiles hesitated. “I just don't want to go to a hospital. I won't get better there.”

“Then tell me, Stiles. What do I do? How do I help you get better?”

He shrugged. Derek wasn't asking him what Stiles wanted him to do, he was asking how a psychiatrist would help a patient in this situation. Stiles didn't want to venture down that line of thinking.

“Tell me!”

“You... the patient needs to be in a safe, controlled environment,” Stiles said, practically reciting what he'd learned in school. “Until they can be evaluated by a professional... but Derek -”

“So I'll stay with you. You need to go get your arm looked at anyway, right? We can set up an appointment to be evaluated at the same time.”

“Derek, I don't need -”

“Stop it!” Derek's nails dug into Stiles's arms and he winced, but the claws were luckily not making an appearance. “You have to work with me here. You almost jumped off a freaking cliff. You don't want to be committed, then fine, work with me. You need to remember that I am your father's Alpha. If I tell him about this, he knows you and he knows me – he'll know the truth, no matter how much you try to lie. And the courts will definitely believe the Sheriff if they won't believe me.” Meaning if Stiles kept resisting, he would get the Sheriff on his side to get Stiles committed. And with the Sheriff on Derek's side, he'd probably succeed.

Stiles swallowed.

“Okay? So work with me.”

Stiles nodded. “Don't,” he whispered, “please don't tell my dad.”

“He deserves to know.”

“It'll only hurt him,” he said, his voice still in a whisper. “Please.”

“He could help,” Derek said, his voice pleading.

Stiles screwed his eyes shut. “Please,” he sobbed.

“Okay, okay,” Derek gave in, his arms wrapping around Stiles once more. He felt Derek's lips against his temple. “It's okay. We'll get through this. I promise.”

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 His father was in bed when they got back. Derek wouldn't let Stiles drive, probably because he was afraid Stiles would drive off a cliff. Stiles felt blissfully numb and a kind of bone-deep exhaustion even finals week couldn't accomplish. He just wanted to sleep for the rest of eternity. He didn't mind Derek driving one bit.

“You want anything to eat?” Derek asked as they walked into the house.

Stiles didn't know how he felt about the irony – Derek offering him food in his own home. But then, it was more Derek's home at this point than his own, wasn't it?

He shook his head. No, he didn't want anything to eat.

“Stiles. Have you eaten anything today?”

“I'll eat tomorrow.”

“Eating is one of those things you do every day. It's not like exercising where you can get away with just a little bit three times a week.”

“When did you become the king of sass?”

“Prolonged exposure to Scott will do that to a person.”

Stiles gave a small smile. “Now you know where I got it from.”

“I do.” Derek smiled back at him. “Please, eat something. Anything. A cereal bar?”

Stiles sighed. “Fine.” He grabbed one from the kitchen, along with a bottle of water. “Happy?” he said as he climbed the stairs.

Derek ignored him. “Get ready for bed. I'm going onto the roof, to give you some privacy, but if you close the window or leave this room, so help me, Stiles...”

“I'll be fine,” he said, taking a bite of the cereal bar. It was dry and tasteless.

“All right,” Derek said suspiciously. “Remember, I've got great hearing.”

“Yeah, I remember. Go.”

Derek didn't hop back into the room even after Stiles gave the okay so he logged onto his computer. He didn't even know why or what he planned to do – it was just habit that when he was bored, he started up his computer.

He realized his mistake almost instantly. His background was a picture of him and Clarissa.

“Who's that?”

Stiles jumped and turned off the monitor. “No one.”

Derek did a dance with his eyebrows that roughly translated to, “Wow, your lying abilities are atrocious, who are you trying to fool, now tell me the truth.”

Stiles ignored the unspoken message. “So, for a while there, you couldn't even stop touching me, let alone let me out of your sight.” Even during the drive, Derek had kept one hand on his arm, awkward but insistent, solid and tense. “Why the rooftop shenanigans?”

“Do you not like privacy?”

“No, privacy is good, I'm a big fan of privacy, just... controlled environment usually means 24-hour supervision. I'd be surprised if you let me shower alone.” Stiles meant it as a joke but he realized the seriousness after he said it. He hoped he would get to shower alone.

“I had to make a few calls.”

“And you had to go to the roof to do that?”

“I didn't want you listening in.”

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat as the blood drained from his face. Had Derek changed his mind. Was he pulling strings to get him committed?

“Calm down,” Derek said. “I gave you my word.”

“So,” Stiles said, swallowing and clearing his throat before he could go on. “Who'd you call?”

Derek seemed to consider him for a moment, sizing him up almost. Then he sighed. “Isaac. And Lydia.”

Stiles waited a beat, expecting to hear more names. “That's it?”

“If I'd told Scott, he'd be here by now. And there's no way we'd keep him quiet enough to not wake your dad. We'll deal with him tomorrow.”

“Why'd you tell Isaac?”

“I'm only one werewolf, Stiles. I can't watch you all the time. Isaac will be my stand-in until we get the others up to date.”

“Others?”

“Yes, others. You don't want to be committed because you can't talk about werewolves. So all the werewolves you know have to be aware of the situation. So you know you can talk to us.” Derek's voice rang just shy of angry, like he was trying to be delicate.

It broke Stiles's heart, that he could make Derek sound like that. “I'm sorry,” Stiles said softly.

“About what?”

“Everything,” he whispered.

“Stiles,” Derek sighed.

Stiles stood up and threw back the covers on his bed. “I'm tired.”

Derek nodded, accepting his change of topic, and switched off the light. “I'll be here.”

“Are you just going to sit there and watch me?”

“Pretty much.”

“Creeper.”

“Go to sleep.”

Suddenly, Stiles sat up in bed. “You called Lydia. What did she say?”

Derek was quiet.

Stiles groaned and buried his head in the pillows. “She is going to kill me.”

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 Derek was gone when Stiles woke up. Instead, Isaac was sitting in the computer chair.

_Well, this isn't awkward, nope, nope_ , Stiles thought. “Hey.”

Isaac's eyes flickered over him, gently, as if too hard a look would break him. Isaac's lips twitched in the semblance of a smile, nervous like his eyes.

Stiles sighed. “Where'd Derek go?”

Shoulders lifted briefly. “He had things to take care of.”

Things. “What kind of things?”

“I took all of the razors and medicine out of the bathroom so if you want to take a shower, you can. I'd like you to leave the door unlocked, though.”

Stiles noted the avoidance of the question. Suddenly he very much did not want to take a shower. Being in there, knowing it had been Stiles-proofed. But the alternative was sitting and hanging with Isaac awkwardly and that might be worse.

“If you promise not to try anything, I'll make breakfast while you shower,” Isaac suggested.

“You don't need to...” Stiles started to say but then he realized what Isaac was doing. He was giving him a tiny bit of privacy, a moment to adjust to Isaac being there instead of Derek. “Okay. Thank you.”

Isaac bobbed his head before standing up. “Remember: unlocked. If I hear you lock the door, I'll break it down. I'm not kidding.”

“I know you're not. I won't lock it.”

Isaac stared at him, probably listening to his heart to see if he was lying. Satisfied, he left the room.

Stiles gathered some clothes and headed to the bathroom. His father had work so Stiles knew it was just him and Isaac in the house. In a show of good faith, he didn't even shut the door all the way.

The image in the mirror took his breath away. There were shadows under his eyes and his cheekbones seemed more prominent than they had after his bout with a bad case of the flu when he was seventeen. His eyes were red – he hadn't slept well, perpetually in a fever-like dream state that was neither restful nor pleasant.

He flinched when he took off his shirt, and not just because of his arm. Around his neck was her school ring. He fingered it gently. Walking around in a daze for the last two weeks, he'd completely forgotten about it. 

Seeing it felt like a punch to the gut and he dropped to his knees, retching over the toilet bowl.

There was a knock on the door almost immediately. “Stiles?”

“I'm okay,” he whispered. He had no doubt Isaac heard him. “Just... bad memories. I'm okay.”

“You didn't take anything?” Isaac pushed the door open a little but Stiles didn't look up.

“What do you mean?” Stiles swallowed and finally looked up at Isaac, whose eyes were wide with worry. Then it dawned on him. “I thought you said you got everything. What would I take?”

“I could have missed something. Stiles, tell me you didn't take anything.”

“No, Isaac, I didn't.” Stiles was still panting but the nausea had passed. “I didn't take anything.”

Isaac stilled, listening to his heartbeat, before accepting his statement as truth. “Okay. You okay? You need anything?”

Stiles shook his head and glanced at the mirror. “Actually, can you... can you take the mirror out?” It was stupid and it was silly but Stiles knew he couldn't look in the mirror again. Not anytime soon, anyway.

Luckily, it wasn't a medicine cabinet – they had a bathroom closet for the towels and toiletries, so it was just hanging on a nail. Isaac removed it without a word. “Stiles...” he said as he was about to leave, mirror tucked under his arm. Then he seemed to change his mind about what he was going to say. “Thank you. For... the door. For not shutting it all the way.”

Stiles nodded but didn't reply, and Isaac went downstairs.

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 Boyd was in the kitchen when Stiles headed in for breakfast.

“Hey Stiles,” he said.

“Hey Boyd.” 

Isaac put a plate of toast, bacon, and scrambled eggs in front of him with a glass of orange juice. Boyd was nursing a cup of coffee.

It was awkward because Stiles knew Boyd knew about what had happened the night before and that they were there to babysit him, but Boyd was taking it in stride and trying to act normal. Stiles appreciated that.

“So, what's new with you?” Stiles asked as he took a bite of bacon.

Boyd glanced at Isaac and they shared an unreadable look. Stiles focused on his food. “Well, I'm going to be taking some classes this summer. Try to finish my Associate's. I'm thinking about going for my Bachelor's in the spring.”

“That's really cool. What are you going to major in?”

They spent the next hour or two talking. Boyd wanted to be an elementary school teacher, saying that having so many siblings and being part of the Pack made him realize that teaching kids was his passion.

Stiles made more coffee for them, Isaac hovering nearby and handing him a spoon from the drawer. Stiles convinced himself that it was only because Isaac was standing right in front of it.

Right when Stiles was feeling comfortable, even getting a chuckle or two out of Isaac, the two wolves looked at each other and left out the back door without a word.

Then he heard the front door slam and he swallowed, wondering who it would be.

He looked up at the kitchen doorway right as Lydia reached it, where she stopped, put her hands on her hips, and stared at him.

Standing, he held his hands out in surrender. “Lydia...”

“What?” she said, challenging. “Please tell me. What? You going to make excuses? Blame someone else? Pretend it was nothing? What? Out with it.”

“Lydia, I'm -” he started to apologize but then he felt a stinging in his cheek.

Even as he was blinking from the shock, Lydia wrapped him in a hug. “Don't you dare apologize to me, Stiles Stilinski. If you're going to apologize to anyone, it should be Clarissa.” Stiles felt himself tense, tightening his arms around Lydia. “Unless...” she said pulling back. “Is that why you haven't been calling me these past two weeks? What happened?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“You idiot. Give me her number, I'll call her.”

He stared at her, feeling his heart start to race. “You want some coffee?”

“Stiles,” she said gently. “She'll get over this, whatever it is. She'll call and you'll both apologize and it'll blow over. And if it doesn't, then... that sucks, but there's no need to get all melodramatic about it.”

He turned to the coffee pot, feeling his breathing start to hitch. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the counter.

He heard the clack of her heels as she approached him. “You said something to me once,” she said softly. “Death doesn't happen to you. It happens to everyone around you. How would she have felt standing over your coffin -” She was going to say more but Stiles couldn't hear her anymore over the sound of his own sobbing.

His legs gave out and he crumpled on the floor, glad to be against the cabinets and counter so he could hide somewhat.

Lydia wrapped her arms around him from behind and the panic in her voice was palpable. She kept asking what happened, what was wrong, to please tell her.

Stiles could only say two words over and over again, “I can't.”

It was a long time before they got up.

When he finally did stand, he had to grip the counter. “Leg fell asleep,” he said in a half-chuckle, half-sob. Lydia didn't say anything, just maintained an iron grip on his arm.

When he turned, he realized Derek had come back at some point. He was staring at them from across the room, his eyes sad, lips pursed. There were bags under his eyes that made Stiles look well rested.

“Hey,” Stiles said, voice shaky and broken.

“Hey,” Derek said smoothly. “We need to talk.”

“I just got here, Derek!” Lydia retorted.

Derek tossed a phone to her. “Call his doctor, set up an appointment to have his arm looked at. Tell them he also needs a psych evaluation.”

“I can do that,” Stiles muttered.

“So can she.”

Lydia glanced back and forth before scrolling through his contacts. Stiles needed to remember to keep his phone on him at all times. It was a testament of their friendship that she knew who to call.

“When did you hurt your arm?” Derek asked.

Stiles knew that look. “The day before I came home.”

“You hear that Lydia?”

She nodded and walked out of the room. She knew what day that had been.

Derek crossed his arms. “Are you going to tell me what's going on?”

“I'm not sure I understand your question.”

“I spoke with Deaton.”

Stiles made his way over to a chair and sat down heavily. “Why?”

“You didn't want me to tell Melissa. I thought getting a medical professional's opinion would be helpful.”

“He's a veterinarian.”

“Are you angry that I told him or are you angry about what he might have told me?”

Stiles shut his mouth and stared at the table.

“Stiles. What happened?”

“I can't.”

“I need to know. Stiles, is my pack in danger?”

Danger. Was the Hale Pack in danger? Stiles couldn't believe he hadn't thought of that question before. “I don't know,” he whispered. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Derek yelled. Stiles flinched. “Maybe? You've been back in town for two weeks and you didn't tell me?”

It occurred to Stiles how he'd been putting the Hale Pack in danger for years now, unknowingly sure but since he'd gotten back, he'd known. He killed their Alpha. There was no doubt they'd come looking for him, and probably Derek's pack, too. He wasn't sure how old grudges reacted to new grudges – did they stack one on top of another or did the newest grudge cancel out the oldest? “I'm sorry.”

Derek seemed to deflate a little. “Just tell me what happened.”

“Derek, I -”

“Stiles,” Lydia said, coming back into the room. “You have an appointment in thirty minutes. I can drive you.”

“I'll take him,” Derek said.

“Can... can I go with Lydia?” He knew riding with Derek would result in being grilled about what had happened and he wasn't ready for that. At least Lydia knew when to back off.

Derek glared at him for a moment. “Fine, but I'll be close behind.”

“Derek, come on, I'll be fine.”

“I'm more worried about you lying to the doctor.”

Stiles felt himself flush.

Lydia rattled her keys in the air.

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 “Hold on a minute,” Lydia said as she pulled into a parking spot.

“We're going to be late.”

“You have five minuets.” She turned the car off and turned to face him. “This isn't you, Stiles,” she said after a minute of just staring at him. At this comment, he looked away. “You're happy and optimistic. You're not depressed. So what happened?”

Maybe if she'd started with that last question, he would have answered. Or at least stayed in the car. But telling him who he was and how he felt sent a surge of anger through him that had him opening the door before he even realized it.

She didn't chase after him though she did call his name a few times. He kept walking.

They must have been expecting him because as soon as the woman took the clipboard away after he signed it, a nurse came through the door and called his name.

She took his weight (which was a good fifteen pounds less than his normal weight, he noted) and his blood pressure (she made sure to use his left arm) before giving him a smile and assuring him that the doctor would be in soon.

Before he even had a chance to finish his first read through of all the posters, the doctor came in.

“Stiles,” she said, smiling. “It's good to see you. What seems to be the problem today?”

“Well, I'm pretty sure my arm is broken.” Best to start with the easy stuff, he figured. 

She proceeded to poke and prod his arm before writing something down, no doubt scheduling an X-Ray. “Anything else?” She looked at him expectantly.

Stiles swallowed, knowing Derek was nearby, listening in. “I... um... I'm kind of... depressed?” He smiled at her but his eyes couldn't focus on anything.

She assumed the concerned look. “You do seem to have lost weight. I take it you haven't started on a new exercise regimen?” He shook his head. “How have you been sleeping?”

He only briefly considered a smartass response. “I sleep but it doesn't seem restful?” he said with a shrug.

“I see. Are you hurting yourself? Cutting, hair pulling, intentional bruising?”

He shook his head.

“Suicidal ideation?”

This was the question he'd been worried about. Hopefully, Derek couldn't see him, because he shook his head. It wasn't exactly a lie. At the moment, he didn't feel like jumping off a cliff.

“Okay. I'm going to take some blood. Sometimes depression can be a symptom of something else. In the meantime, I'm going to set you up with a Psych Evaluation, just to be on the safe side. If you need medication, I want them to handle it. First and foremost, let's get an X-Ray of your arm.”

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 Stiles left the doctor's with his right arm in a cast, having undergone the intensely painful process of re-breaking the bone because of the way it had been broken the first time. She'd given him some pain medication, some pamphlets on depression that he didn't need, a pamphlet on domestic abuse that made him want to laugh or cry, he wasn't sure which, and an appointment for a Psych Evaluation later in the week, having been deemed not at risk of suicide or self-harm and therefore not an emergency.

Lydia was gone when he left the building. Instead, Derek drove him home after Stiles handed him the bag of pain medication. “You weren't completely honest,” Derek said as he drove.

Stiles remained silent.

“Do you need me to go in with you for the evaluation?” It wasn't an offer, it was a threat.

“No,” Stiles mumbled.

“You going to tell me what happened?”

Stiles took a deep breath. “All I can tell you is that the Alpha is dead. I don't know how many were in the pack. If they come for anyone, it'll probably be me.”

“And you didn't think to tell me this?” Derek's hands were gripping the steering wheel.

“I seem to be doing an awful lot of not thinking lately.”

Derek growled but said nothing.

After a few blocks, Stiles screwed up some courage. “Did you tell Scott?”

Derek opened his mouth a couple of times before settling on, “He knows.”

Stiles swallowed, ice forming in his stomach. “How'd he take it?”

“I'm not going to be your go-between.”

“Is he home? Now? Alone?”

Derek glanced at him. “You want me to take a right or a left?”

Stiles considered the intersection they were at and sure enough, it was exactly where they would have to make a choice of left to go to Scott's or right to go to Stiles's. No time like the present, Stiles thought. “Left,” he whispered.

Derek didn't move. There was no one behind them, thankfully. “Stiles, you've had a long day already. You can put this off another day. No one would blame you.”

“Scott would. Left, Derek.”

“You're sure? You still look a little loopy from what they gave you when they re-broke your arm.” Stiles nodded. “Okay,” he said with a sigh.

Melissa's car was fortunately missing and Stiles knew Scott was home only because Derek threw the car into park.

“I'll wait here,” Derek said.

Stiles had to ring the doorbell three times before Scott answered, which was a deliberate slap in the face considering Scott must have known who it was before he even rang the first time.

When Scott opened the door finally, they met eyes only briefly. Scott made sure to look over his shoulder, at the ground, or the door – anywhere but directly at Stiles.

“Hey. Can we talk?” Stiles asked.

“Oh, you want to talk now?” Scott said, voice dripping with sarcasm. Then he waved him inside. “By all means.”

Stiles knew he deserved the attitude but it sure wasn't helping matters.

They stood inside for a few minutes in awkward silence before Stiles finally said, “I'm sorry.”

“What are you sorry for, Stiles? Are you sorry you tried? Or are you sorry that Derek stopped you? Are you sorry about not trying to pick this up and call your best friend before jumping?” Scott had grabbed his phone from his pocket and waved it in the air. Stiles flinched but made no move to stop him. He almost looked like he was going to throw it and Stiles thought maybe he wanted him to. “Is my number even still in here?” Scott started scrolling through his phone. “Yep, here I am, still on speed dial, though I seem to have been demoted. Let's see, did you call your dad? No, obviously not, because we're still keeping it a secret from him. Lydia? No, I talked to her earlier and she was in tears.” Stiles flinched again, both at the thought of Lydia crying for him and because he knew who was next on speed dial. “Oh, what about Clarissa, did you call her? Probably not.”

“She's dead,” Stiles breathed. He found it was easier to say, to admit when he didn't plan it out.

Scott froze. “What?”

“She's dead. I... I killed her.”

Scott stared at him for a moment, all the fire seeming to drain out of him. “Is this like... a figuratively speaking kind of thing?”

Stiles shook his head.

“Stiles, you're not a murderer,” he said with a hesitant chuckle. “You didn't kill your girlfriend.”

“She was a werewolf, Scott.” Stiles sank into the couch. It felt like the threads that had been keeping this secret locked inside him were slowly, blissfully, coming undone. “An Alpha. With a grudge.”

“A grudge? Against who?”

“Derek.”

There was a blooming of understanding and realization in Scott's eyes. “How did she even know you knew Derek?”

Stiles felt his insides twist. “She knew from the start. When I was a freshman, for the first few weeks, I still smelled like Pack. Four years... just to get to Derek.” Stiles hugged himself, to ward of nausea or hold in the pain, he wasn't sure. “I was going to ask her to marry me.” Then the tears came.

Scott was instantly beside him, pulling at his arms to hug him. Stiles felt a distant pang as his casted arm went around Scott but he didn't care.

“I thought I wouldn't survive after Derek broke up with me but then I found Clarissa. And then she turns out to be a werewolf with a vendetta,” Stiles sobbed into Scott's shoulder. “What's wrong with me, why do I keep falling for people who don't even love me back? And I killed her, Scott! She threatened Derek, the Pack, Beacon Hills, and I didn't fucking hesitate! What does that say about me?” Stiles gripped Scott by the shoulders, hanging on like his life depended on it.

“It says you're loyal -” Scott started.

“Loyal to a Pack that doesn't even want me! A pack that wants my father but not me!” Luckily Scott was a werewolf because Stiles felt like his grip would shatter a human. “It hurts,” he breathed. “I can't get the image... of her dying... the black... her veins... she looked so shocked, Scott... how can I live with myself after...” Then he stopped, unable to go on, just letting himself let go. It was terrifying and painful and yet, somehow freeing, letting himself fall apart, finally, totally, officially. And Scott was there, holding him, not letting him go.

It was a long time before either of them spoke. Stiles had a headache and his entire face felt swollen and red. He might have cried with Lydia and collapsed with Derek but he hadn't let himself truly fall apart until Scott.

“I wonder if this is how Buffy felt after she sent Angel to hell,” Stiles said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Stiles, can I tell you something?” Scott pulled away to lean over the arm of the couch and grab some tissues. Stiles accepted graciously and blew his nose, wincing at the pain in his head as he did so. “You've always been a part of the Pack.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and started to shake his head.

“No, listen,” Scott said. “Derek was an ass for breaking up with you the way he did, for making you believe you'd been expelled from the Pack. But we were assholes for not standing up for you, for not letting you know that you still... we thought it was for the best. We've been cursed, or blessed depending on how you want to look at it, but you had a chance for a relatively peaceful, harmless human life. It wasn't fair of us to keep putting you in danger, for letting you put yourself in danger. We thought it would be easier for you to make a clean break.

“Let me tell you, Stiles, we are all kicking ourselves in the ass for that decision. But no matter what, if you ever needed anything, all you had to do...” he said and he shook Stiles's phone near his ear.

“But Derek said,” Stiles started to say.

“Derek is an ass. And he was lying. We all knew it. Stiles, would I really stay in a Pack, a Pack you convinced me to join, if there was even a chance they wouldn't help you if you needed it?”

“Why do you think you were demoted on my speed dial? You hardly called. I thought -”

From the pained look on Scott's face, he knew what Stiles had thought. Then Stiles was being crushed in Scott's arms again. “I would never abandon you, Stiles. If you had called me that night on Widow's Peak, I would have dropped everything. I would have been there in a heartbeat. Same goes for the rest of the Pack.” 

Part of him was relieved but not surprised to hear Scott reassure him of his loyalty, but he steadfastly refused to believe the others felt the same. He knew he was nothing to them.

“When did you get so huggy?” Stiles joked. He knew it was a werewolf thing but all these hugs were starting to make him uncomfortable. Not because he didn't like them; it was because he liked them too much. He didn't want to get used to it.

Scott took the hint and pulled back. “Want a beer?”

Stiles thought about the drug interactions but decided the medications had worn off by now, otherwise he wouldn't be suffering from a tears-induced migraine. “God, yes.”

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 When he got into the car, Erica was sitting in the driver's seat. Stiles had to fight to stay calm. These surprise babysitters and chauffeurs were starting to grate on his nerves. He'd like to be warned first, at least.

He wondered when she'd gotten there. He'd assumed Derek had been outside and therefore heard everything that had been said but what if he'd left right after Stiles went inside? What if Erica had been the one to hear everything? Was he supposed to explain everything or apologize to Erica? Would he have to recount the entire story to Derek?

“Hey,” he said as he slid into the passenger seat.

“Hi,” she said without looking at him. When they got to the first stop sign, she cleared her throat. “So, I see you turned in your piece of shit jeep.”

“That was not a piece of shit, that was a work of art. That jeep was majestic, okay?”

“Is majestic a synonym for 'junk'?”

“No, Erica,” Stiles said as he adopted his lecturing voice, “majestic is a synonym for regal, royal, magnificent, stunning -”

“Stunningly unreliable, maybe. I heard about the mishaps you had with it.”

Stiles swallowed around the ball of emotional that threatened to form in knowing that Erica had kept tabs on him, but he forced himself to go on with the teasing and bickering. “Okay, sure, she got a bit temperamental in her old age. But let's be real, doesn't everything? I mean, imagine Derek as an old man.”

Erica snorted and then outright laughed. If she were human, he'd worry she might crash the car.

His father was home when they pulled into the driveway. “I'll be in your room,” she said with a wink.

He smiled. She wasn't hitting on him or being lascivious and he actually was kind of grateful to her for joking with him and not asking questions.

After such a long day, he felt obligated to at least stop in and say hello to his father. Isaac was in the kitchen with him making dinner.

“Hey. How's green bean casserole sound to you?” his father asked.

Seeing his father standing next to Isaac, knowing Erica was upstairs, having just come from Scott's and the emotional breakdown that had happened there, his mouth was suddenly dry. “Oh um. You know... I'm not really hungry.”

His dad stopped moving for a moment and Isaac threw him a dirty look. “All right,” his dad said. “Let us know if you change your mind. There'll be plenty left overs.”

“Thanks. I'll um... be in my room.” He couldn't wait to get out of the room but he paced himself anyway. His dad knew something was going on, no doubt about it, but he was giving Stiles his space. Still, if he went running up the stairs, it might set off alarms in his dad's head.

Before he even shut the door, he was choking on air. Erica was immediately in his face, wondering what was wrong. As much as he loved the hugs he'd been getting, touch was suddenly the last thing he wanted and he shoved her away. He wanted to get away, to hide. It seemed like he hadn't been alone in forever and he just wanted space to breathe but he knew they had strict orders not to leave him alone.

He decided on a compromise, running into the closet and closing the door, sitting on the floor, not even minding the hard jab of notebooks and games against his back as he leaned on the shelves.

“Stiles?” Erica said from the outside. No doubt she could open the door with ease and yank him out if she wanted to.

“I'm okay,” he breathed. “Panic attack.” In all honesty, he was amazed that it took this long for the panic attacks to start.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked after a moment.

Sure. She could read a book, listen to music, play a video game. Pretend he wasn't in the middle of a weeks'-long, years overdue meltdown. The last thing he wanted during a panic attack was for people to try to help him. He spent ninety percent of his days helping everyone else out, making other people the center of attention. Not that he didn't like attention, because he did, but he was completely fine with helping others take the spotlight, too. But every once in a while, he wanted to burrow into his own head, not have to worry about anyone else or how his panicking might effect other people. Truth be told, just seeing the worry on her face or hearing it in her voice would make the attack worse. He just wanted her to go away but besides the fact that that wasn't even an option, it would be ridiculously rude to say.

“No,” he breathed out before letting the panic attack come on full force. He didn't like panic attacks but it was a bit like the stomach bug – no one _liked_ to vomit but you couldn't deny that you felt better afterward. The sooner he gave into the attack, the sooner it would end.

Murderer. That was the word Scott had used. He wasn't wrong.

And his dad. His dad knew something was wrong. Stiles was back to keeping secrets from him. And making the Pack keep secrets from him, too, even though his father was Pack and Stiles wasn't.

He wished he'd brought a pillow to bury his face in so he could mask the sound of his hitching breaths.

Was Clarissa's Pack going to come for him? For the Pack? How were they coping without an Alpha?

Had he even done the right thing? Couldn't he have talked her out of it? Should he have let Derek handle it?

No. That hadn't even been an option. Derek could have been hurt. He could have been killed. He could have killed Clarissa. It wouldn't have been fair of Stiles to put that burden on Derek. It was best all around for Derek to not have been involved.

Did all of that mean he still had feelings for Derek?

He gripped his fingers, the bits sticking out from the cast, unable to find anything solid enough for his tastes to latch on to, and squeezed, desperate for something solid, something real to connect him to the present. It didn't work.

How was he going to pass the Psych Evaluation? Should he be honest?

What was his future even? His father put murderers behind bars. How was he ever going to look him in the eye again? What if, when his father found out what happened, he disowned him? Threw him in jail and never talked to him again?

Was that what he deserved?

Stiles curled in on himself at the images and realized he was crying, his lungs screaming for air, his head floaty and headachey at the same time.

Then he realized Erica was talking.

Reading, actually. It took a few moments to recognize the words and the characters.

When he'd come home from college, he'd pulled out some boxes from his closet in a half-hearted attempt to unpack and reorganize. He'd never gotten around to putting the boxes back.

One of those boxes had contained his mother's old books. One of those books was Lord of the Flies. Which Erica was now reading.

And Stiles slid to the ground then. It wasn't the story that got to him, nor was it the fact that Erica was flawlessly handling his panic attack in exactly the right way.

It was the fact that, throughout this whole situation, it hadn't even occurred to him what his mother would think. High school graduation, prom, senior ball, college graduation – all he'd wanted was for her to be there, to see him, to be proud of him. But for the first time ever, he was glad she wasn't there to see him, glad he didn't have the chance to see her face and the disappointment over the screw-up he'd become.

Stiles was glad his mother was dead.

Stiles reached up, grabbed a coat, yanked it off the hanger, and pulled it to his face so he could scream into it.


	3. Chapter 3

He woke up several hours later. Someone was running fingers through his hair and his head was in a lap. He didn't even remember falling asleep or feeling tired enough to.

“You hungry?” Erica asked softly.

His mouth felt like cotton and his head was pounding, which food would probably help with both, yet the atmosphere in the closet was soft and warm. Comfortable.

He nodded anyway.

She pushed the door open with a foot. “Isaac, heat up some casserole,” she said in a normal voice. “Yeah, I'll have some too. Stiles. Honey. You got to get up.”

The light in the room made him flinch, though he could see dark sky through his windows. “How long did I sleep?”

She grinned at him but didn't answer.

“Thanks,” he said softly. Then he cleared his throat. “For um...”

“Really? Felt like I made it worse, if anything.”

He shook his head. He thought about explaining the significance of the book she'd chosen but a lump rocketed into his throat. It would probably make her feel bad anyway, so he just shook his head again.

The rest of the night was oddly comfortable. Isaac presented them with heaping plates of food when they got downstairs and Stiles's stomach rumbled. He hadn't eaten since breakfast. The Sheriff was in the dining room, papers strewn all around the table. He had his glasses on but they did nothing to hide the dark circles under his eyes. Stiles knocked on the door frame and held up a movie when his dad looked up. The worry lines instantly eased as he smiled and put down his glasses. It was a peace offering from Stiles that his dad was silently accepting.

Isaac and Erica both seemed to fall asleep during the movie. Stiles knew they probably weren't really asleep and if they were, it would only take a cracked knuckle to wake them. They didn't move when the movie ended and his dad popped the disc back in the case but Stiles noticed Erica's eyes open and then quickly close.

“You going to tell me what's going on?” his dad asked, slightly above a whisper.

Erica's eyelids fluttered but this time they stayed closed.

For the first time all day, he felt calm and unemotional. Not that he was numb the way he'd been in the weeks prior to the incident on Widow's Peak. No, it was more that he'd worn himself out. He was too exhausted for any emotion to make a big play.

The lights were still dimmed and neither of them made a move to brighten them. Stiles was grateful for that – the dark was a little like a security blanket to him.

“Clarissa and I broke up,” Stiles said. It wasn't a complete lie. Even a partial truth was a step in the right direction.

His dad's eyes softened. “I'm sorry. When did that happen?”

“Before I came home.”

“What happened?”

“I don't really want to talk about it. In the end, she just didn't love me...” Stiles trailed off. He was going to say _as much as she said she did_ or something to that extent but he knew how his father picked out words and intonations. As it was, he felt like he'd said too much. Hopefully, his father would write it off to Stiles being heartbroken rather than hiding more secrets.

“I'm so sorry, Stiles. You really loved her, didn't you?”

Stiles nodded.

“There was one time your mom broke up with me, you know.”

Stiles was suddenly fully awake and alert. His father never talked about his mother. Not without liquid courage.

“It was... long before you. When we first started dating. She never really did explain why she broke up with me but a few weeks later, she apologized and we got back together. Maybe with Clarissa, it'll be like that.”

Stiles let out a breath. Talk of his mom always put his heart in a vise-like grip. “No, Dad, we're over.”

“Well. You're a great catch, Stiles. You'll find someone. You know that I'm here, right? If you ever need to talk?”

Again, Stiles nodded.

“Seriously, Stiles. I know you had to keep secrets about the werewolves when you were in high school but... you don't need to keep those secrets anymore.”

Stiles was sure his father wasn't talking about Stiles and Derek's relationship but that's what Stiles instantly thought of. He made himself backtrack. What exactly was his father talking about? Was Stiles ready to go there, wherever there was?

“For now, though, I'm going to bed. I'm pulling a double tomorrow.”

Stiles nodded as the two werewolves instantly stirred, offering sleepy farewells to the Sheriff. When the top stair creaked, Stiles looked at them. “Are you both staying tonight?”

“If that's okay,” Isaac said.

“And it if isn't?” Stiles asked. It was for show. Of course he'd let them stay.

“We'd ignore you and stay anyway, but we'd probably torment you the entire night as punishment,” Erica said with a grin.

“Well. There you have it. Let's off to bed with us.”

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 The next few days passed with relative ease.

If relative ease meant excruciatingly kind misery.

Isaac made him breakfast every morning while he, Stiles, and Boyd chatted. Lydia, Erica, and Scott came over around noon every day and they played four player games. Luckily, he'd shown Lydia how to play over the last few years so she held her own. Erica, on the other hand, sucked. Her excuse was that, surrounded by boys, she hardly ever got a chance to claim a controller before the others got to them and therefore she was out of practice.

He didn't see Derek or hear from him for three days. He knew asking would raise suspicions and, if it weren't for the pack being completely calm, he'd be a little worried.

Screw that, he was a little worried anyway.

It wasn't like he _wanted_ Derek there. Well, he did want him there. But it was more about the fact that Derek said he would be the one watching him. Or at least, he let on that he would be the one watching him the majority of the time. Derek wasn't one to back on his word.

Stiles tried to put it out of his mind, though. If he thought too much about it, the others would pick up on his tension and he was pretty sure he already reeked of tension. 

The night before the Psych Evaluation, he had another panic attack. It wasn't triggered by anything specific. He was just beginning to realize how truly depressed he was.

He hadn't stopping thinking about suicide, he just didn't actively seek it. He found himself thinking that if a car veered off the road and killed him, then yeah, that would be okay. The pain killers and Adderal were handed out by Isaac every time he needed them and Stiles had no idea where his hiding place was. Even Tylenol and NyQuil seemed to have disappeared. He was still eating less than normal but if it wasn't for the Pack watching his every bite (even when they were being discreet, he could feel their eyes on him), he probably wouldn't have eaten at all. Looking back, that was probably a tip off to Derek that something was wrong in the weeks leading up to Widow's Peak.

He didn't even remember those two weeks. Driving home in the Uhaul truck across the country, barely stopping for even a few hours of sleep here or there, all he did was follow the GPS. The landscape, the scenery, all of it was a blur in his memory, if not completely blacked out. Emptying the Uhaul when he got home, carrying all the boxes to his room, having his dad follow him to the Uhaul dealership to give him a ride home after he dropped off the trust. Stiles is pretty sure he flopped onto his bed afterwards and barely moved for the next week and a half. He knows his dad chalked up the first two days to exhaustion, end of school, finals, packing, unpacking, driving thousands of miles and all that.

His father didn't question the disappearance of the mirror from the bathroom. Every time Stiles took a shower, he was grateful for its absence.

Nightmares had crawled into his bed at night, in the form of black veins and bloody vomit. Her face everywhere, sometimes mixed with Derek's. After the first nightmare, Erica had crawled into bed with him. He didn't complain. Whether it was for his comfort or hers, he wasn't sure. After the second or third nightmare that night, Isaac crawled in on the other side. It was a bit stuffy, considering it was approaching mid-June, but also because the bed wasn't really supposed to fit that many people. Oddly, it wasn't awkward.

He wondered what he smelled like, the sounds his nightmares drew out of him, for them to mold themselves around his body like they did. Their presence in the bed didn't magically ward off or dispel the nightmares but it made the waking up nicer, even if he was still kind of mad at them.

That first day after Widow's Peak had drained him, though, so even though he had nightmares a lot, he still slept on average twelve hours a day.

Despite everyone keeping him company and simultaneously giving him space, he felt like a black cloud whenever he entered a room. He didn't even have the energy to smile most of the time, real or fake, and he found himself hiding in the bathroom too often for comfort just to get his emotions under control.

At night, he found himself lying awake after a nightmare realizing that these emotions weren't even new – they'd been around for years now. Thing was, in the past, he'd always shoved it away, gone to frat parties, hung out with Clarissa – anything to bury it. It seemed now that she was gone and he had graduated college, he'd lost his steam. He couldn't push it down anymore.

He realized now how much he'd relied on Clarissa. No one else from college, classmates or dormmates, had even come close to forming lasting bonds with him. Even the other couple Clarissa and Stiles had shared an apartment with had been more like neighbors than housemates. Looking back on his college career, he realized he'd clung onto Clarissa almost from the very beginning. If it hadn't been for her, would he have found himself on the edge of the cliff a lot sooner?

The metaphorical bottle in which he'd tossed his insecurities, self-hatred, guilt, and sadness was now not only overflowing but had been shattered and was cutting painfully into his feet with every step.

When he had his second panic attack the night before the psych evaluation, Erica was ready.

Before he could shut the closet door, she shoved an iPod and some headphones at him. “Give it a try,” she said.

The first song was an old song from the 90s, “Tub-Thumping” by Chumbawumba where the lyrics were literally about getting knocked down but getting back up again.

It was followed by Journey's “Don't Stop Believing,” Queen's “Keep Yourself Alive,” the Mountain Goats' “This Year,” and when he scrolled through the rest of the songs, he couldn't help but shed a few tears as his panic attack began to subside. All of the songs were upbeat but not sickeningly poppy. 

The closet door opened as he pushed at it with his foot a couple minutes later. Erica was sitting on the floor outside, blinking at him in surprise.

“You made me a happy playlist.” They both knew 'happy' was a polite way of saying 'anti-suicide.'

“Not just me. Everyone helped a little.”

Stiles was speechless.

“We've heard what you've been listening to. You needed something more upbeat. Inspirational. And we wanted a non-sappy way to show you... how much we love you.” She said the last bit in a mumbled rush but Stiles heard and understood every word. He bounded out of the closet to give her a hug.

“Ugh,” she said. “Someone will see us.”

“I'll probably give them a hug, too.”

Stiles fell asleep that night listening to the iPod. It helped.

In the morning, Isaac and Erica were gone. His headphones had been removed in the night and Derek was sitting in his computer chair with a headphone in one ear, listening to his playlist.

“Sleep well?” Derek asked, glancing at him briefly before scrolling through his iPod.

“Better than usual.” Which wasn't saying much but Derek hadn't been around – as if he'd know. “Where've you been?”

“Had some stuff to take care of.”

“Some stuff?” Stiles echoed.

“Yeah. Stuff. Pack stuff.”

“I'm sorry, too many details, you're confusing me. Can you repeat that with a little more vague, please?”

Derek gifted him with a light scowl. “Peter went to Washington for Pack business. He got back a few days ago and I had to go over some stuff with him. Don't worry about it.”

“I wasn't going to. You saying that makes me think I should worry about it. Should I be worried?”

“No, Stiles, I just said don't worry about it. You hungry?”

“I'm never hungry.” Which was mostly true but didn't need to be said. Stiles wondered at the things that came out of his own mouth sometimes. “Why are you changing the subject?”

“I'm not changing the subject, that part of the conversation was over.”

“Because you changed the subject.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I swear to god, Stiles...”

“You like my playlist?” he asked.

“Wow, talk about changing the subject.”

“Erica and the others made it.”

Derek quirked an eyebrow at him and hummed.

He still knew Derek well enough to know exactly what had just been not said. “You helped.”

Derek sighed and nodded but said nothing.

“Which songs did you choose?”

“None of them got on there without mine or Lydia's approval.”

Stiles blinked at him. “That didn't really answer my question.”

“Well I _approved_ most of them.”

“But which ones did you _choose_?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because if you tell me at least two songs, I'll eat breakfast.”

“You'll eat breakfast anyway.”

“Well, okay, but this way, it'll be voluntary! Hell, I might even act happy about it.”

“If I tell you two songs that I chose, will you shut up?”

“Absolutely!”

“Songbird and You Are Not Alone.” Derek stood up. “Breakfast,” he said with a headbob to the door.

“You chose those songs?” Stiles asked, not moving.

“I just told you I did. Now come on.”

Stiles got up and followed him wordlessly downstairs. All of the songs on his iPod were beautiful. Erica might have an aversion to being a sap but Stiles didn't. Every song on there was hand-picked by people he'd thought didn't give a crap about him but were slowly changing his mind with each passing day. Even if he didn't like the style of music, he fell in love with each song, generally knowing who picked it and knowing they picked it for him, specifically to cheer him up when he was upset or having a panic attack. It brought a lump to his throat every time.

But these songs. He hadn't known who chose them. He'd assumed Isaac had chosen the first song, as it was right up there with the style he enjoyed, but the second song had been a shock. Hook had been their movie, his mother's and his, the one he watched whenever he got sick. And every night before bed, she'd sing him that song.

How had that song that meant so much to him made it onto the playlist?

“I'd like you to bring the letters with you today.”

“What?” Stiles realized he was at the table with a plate full of food in front of him. For the first time in what seemed like weeks, he was actually eager to eat.

“Your suicide notes,” Derek said and Stiles froze. “I want you to bring them with you today.”

“Did I tell you about those?” Stiles couldn't honestly remember.

“I found them.”

Everything in Stiles's chest seemed to freeze and his stomach pulled some weird acrobatics shit. Even his mouth went dry. “You found them.”

“Yeah. I only read the one with my name on it.”

“And the others?” Stiles breathed. He was afraid he already knew the answer.

Derek didn't say anything. He'd handed them out to the person they'd been addressed to.

Stiles felt not just a swell but a wave, a whole fucking tsunami of anger suddenly crashing into him. “Why would you do that?” Isaac disappeared into the front of the house but it barely registered to Stiles. “Why the hell would you do that, Derek? You had no fucking right! They were in my fucking computer, which can only be accessed with a fucking password! How dare you! What gave you the fucking right?” Stiles was screaming now and he threw his plate of food at Derek for good measure.

Derek barely even flinched. “Are you done?”

“No, I am _not_ fucking done!” he yelled. He moved to pick up the chair and throw it, cast or no cast, but Derek was right next to him then, yanking the chair out of his hands and spinning Stiles so they were pressed back to front, Stiles's arms criss-crossed in front of him. Derek's hands were locked around Stiles's wrist and cast, holding him in place, but his anger didn't dissipate. In fact, he got even more frantic, screaming curses and stamping his feet, trying to connect on Derek's foot. The first time he did, Derek grunted and sat in a chair, pulling Stiles on top of him and trapping his legs against the chair with his own.

He thought of throwing his head back but as soon as it occurred to him, Derek put his mouth right next to his ear. “I'm sorry,” he whispered.

Stiles stopped struggling, panting and on the verge of tears.

“I know it was an invasion of privacy,” Derek continued. “I know you didn't want us to read them unless...” Stiles felt Derek sigh and shivered at the breath against his ear. “To be fair, you were already logged onto the computer. I was just going to change your background because it obviously bothered you. But then I saw the file... The others wouldn't have taken it seriously. They didn't see you on the cliff, and you are way too good at pretending you're happy. I needed them to know how serious you were. And it had our names on it.”

“I never wanted...” Stiles started but he didn't know how to finish. He didn't want the others to read them? Except he did. He didn't want to be alive to see their reactions to the letters? Definitely, but it seemed wrong to say it out loud. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. He remembered Derek's letter. Besides the one to his father, it had been the most difficult to write.

Derek didn't reply, only tightened his hold briefly, not to restrain him but as a backwards hug. “You good?”

Stiles nodded. “I'm good.”

Derek let Stiles go, helping him gain his balance gently, before crouching on the floor to start cleaning up.

“I can do that,” Stiles said. They cleaned up in silence, side by side. It started to hit him then, how that was why Lydia had been crying the day he spoke with Scott. That was why Scott had been so cold. Why Boyd, Isaac, and Erica were being so nice and not asking too many questions. They'd all read words he'd never meant for their eyes while he was alive.

Derek had read words he'd written when he thought he was going to die. He kept glancing at Derek, feeling panic trying to seep into his veins.

“Was...” Stiles had to swallow before continuing. “Was that part of the reason you disappeared?”

Derek dried off his hands as they finished with the mess, carefully avoiding Stiles's eyes. “Peter –”

“So that's a yes.”

Derek itched his the bridge of his nose, another excuse to not meet Stiles's eyes. “It was really difficult to read that letter.”

It was harder to swallow this time but Stiles managed. “I'm sorry. You didn't have to read it.”

“No, I... I _did_ have to read it. Sit.” Derek pulled a chair over and sat directly in front of Stiles so their knees were almost touching. Stiles watched as Derek's Adam's Apple bobbed, his fingers twitching in his lap until Stiles reached out and covered both of Derek's hands with his own cast covered hand. Derek seized his hand with both of his and held on, gently. Then he licked his lips and finally met Stiles's eyes before glancing quickly at the microwave, no doubt checking the time to see how long they had until the psych evaluation appointment. “In the letter –” he started.

Stiles interrupted. “We don't have to talk about it.”

Then Derek got that intensity to his eyes reserved usually for truces and alliances, to show the other side how honest he was being and watching them for signs of betrayal. “Yes, we do. You can't talk to your soon-to-be therapist about werewolves. I'm a werewolf, therefore you can't talk about me. And you promised you'd try, that you'd work on this.”

He'd made no such promise but he'd alluded to it and he was feeling a bit to raw at that moment to argue with Derek, so he nodded. 

“In the letter,” Derek continued, “you said you wanted me to look after your dad. You wanted the pack to look after me. I'm sure you told everyone else pretty much the same thing – to look after each other. But... you never really let anyone look after you.”

“I don't need help, I'm fine,” Stiles said automatically. Then he winced. “Okay... I might _now_... a little help...”

“You've got to ask for it when you need it, Stiles. You have to accept it when it's given. We're werewolves but we're not psychic.”

“I think this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black.”

“I didn't try to jump off a cliff, Stiles.”

Stiles flinched.

“In your letter, you said... there was a special place for me in your heart... and that you didn't hate me. Stiles, I've never stopped caring for you. Please don't ever think of yourself as a burden.”

He swallowed.

“Will you make me a promise? A lifetime promise? If ever you are on the edge again, metaphorical or literal, call me? Ask me for help? My phone is always on.”

All Stiles could do was nod. Derek wasn't touching on other parts of his letter and that was probably deliberate. It made Stiles tense.

He couldn't stop wondering, though, when Derek said he'd never stopped caring, did he only mean platonically?

“Stiles...” Derek trailed off. He didn't seem to know what he wanted to say. Stiles was about to prod him for more but then Derek was playing with his fingers and the cast, reading all the words the others had written over the last few days. “How'd this happen?”

“Derek...”

“Did she do this?”

Stiles blinked. “You _were_ outside Scott's, weren't you?”

“You got this protecting us.”

It wasn't a question but he knew Derek wanted confirmation. He nodded.

“Thank you.”

Stiles looked at the ground. He knew what Derek was saying, that he meant nothing by it, but all Stiles heard was, 'thank you for killing your girlfriend.'

“All right,” Derek said, slapping his hands on his thighs before standing up. “We should go soon.”

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“So. What has brought you here today, Stiles?” The doctor was a woman, short curly blonde hair, big blue eyes, plump with a loose white coat on. She had kind eyes and Stiles wondered at the relationship between her and his primary care physician. Maybe they didn't know each other at all except by name but maybe they had gone to school together, roomed together, went to parties and studied for tests together.

“I'm depressed,” he said. Then he smiled. He knew it was far from convincing but the alternative, to stare stoically at her, was a worse option.

“Tell me more.”

Three words, yet so heavy. He'd given this appointment a lot of thought, though. “When I went to college, I kind of lost touch with my dad a little. Now that I'm back at home, we're working on fixing things but it's slow going.” If he was being completely honest, there were at least five metric tons of tension between him and his dad still but, yes, he was working on it, sure. “Right when I graduated, my girlfriend and I broke up. It was a really bad breakup.” That was the most he could tell the doctor without blatantly admitting to murdering his girlfriend. Besides, usually if you admitted that you'd gotten depressed or suicidal due to a breakup, you were cut a little slack. “While I was in college, I lost touch with a lot of my friends. Now, especially these last few days, I'm getting back in touch with them. Mending bridges, if you will.” It was always best to show that you were already making strides to getting better.

She nodded and motioned for him to go on, as if that all wasn't enough.

“No, that's pretty much it,” he said with a shrug.

She studied him for a moment, considering. “How about your eating habits?”

Stiles focused on not flinching. “I've lost weight but... I have a pretty good security net at home. My one friend makes delicious breakfasts every morning.”

“That's good,” she said with a smile. “How'd you break your arm?”

Stiles let his own smile fade. He had thought he would be able to maintain it but it seemed to be taking more energy than he'd planned. “I don't want to talk about it.” He'd learned, from being on the other side of the couch so to speak, that it was actually allowed to say you didn't want to talk about something. The fact that a patient was even showing up was a sign of wanting to get better. And sometimes a patient had limits. If they were willing to acknowledge and admit their limits, that was admirable, not annoying or frustrating.

She nodded, accepting his limits easily. “Are you sleeping well?”

He shook his head. “Bad dreams. I'm tired all the time. And my panic attacks are back.”

“Back?”

“I used to have them all the time after my mom died.”

“I see. May I ask how she died?”

Of course, she was trying to see if his mother had depression, giving Stiles a family history of mental illness. “Car accident.”

She nodded again. “Stiles, are you having thoughts of suicide at all?”

He swallowed. If he lied, Derek would know. Stiles wouldn't put it past him to come barging through the door to call him out on his lie. “A little.”

“A little? Could you be a little more specific?”

“I'm not suicidal right now but I've contemplated it. Last weekend, I went up to Widow's Peak.” Every word felt like it was being pulled out of him. He didn't want to tell her about this but knowing that Derek was listening in kept him honest. He wasn't even sure if it was because he was afraid Derek would come bursting through the door or just because the look of disappointment would be too much to bear.

“Suicide Cliff.”

“Yeah. It wasn't a conscious decision. I was just driving and ended up there. One of my friends met up with me, followed me... he was a little worried...”

Her eyes were like lasers, boring into his skull, but she said nothing.

“Like I said,” he continued, “a good support system. They've been really good to me these last few days. They've been helping me a lot.”

“Friends are good but they're not professionals. If you're feeling suicidal –”

“I'm not. Not... anymore.” He wondered if Derek was close enough to hear his heartbeat and it pained him to imagine what the look on Derek's face would be if he could.

She stared at him for a moment, hard and unblinking, the smile gone and replaced by a worried frown. “Did something happen that day? Specifically, for you to feel... overwhelmed?”

Stiles shrugged. “I had a... a bit of an argument with my dad.”

“I see. So it was a spur of the moment thing. Not pre-meditated?”

Damn was she good at her job. Stiles swallowed again and licked his lips, his mouth feeling drier by the minute. “Well, no. I had thoughts before. I played around with writing some suicide notes.”

The wrinkles between her eyes multiplied. “Played around,” she echoed.

He sighed and pulled out a piece of paper. “My friend wanted me to bring this today. It's my note to my dad.” Stiles didn't hand it to her, just flipped it over his fingers again and again. Then he sighed. “I want to get better. I do. But I need help. I understand that. I accept it. I want it.”

“What kind of help do you think you need?”

“Therapy. It won't be fun but I know it'll help. Some anti-depressants. That should be enough.”

“You don't think a professional care facility –”

“No,” he interrupted. “I'm not at that point. If I was, my friends would have dragged me kicking and screaming by now. But they know me and I'm not there.” Which was, for the most part, true.

“Did they know you were depressed?”

“They do now.” He leaned forward. “Look, I'm not a danger. I'm not suicidal. I've got friends. My dad. Please. Give me some anti-depressants, a good therapist, a couple of weeks, and I know I'll be feeling better.”

“You're trained in psychology, aren't you?”

Stiles didn't meet her eyes.

“All right,” she said after a minute. “I'll write a prescription and send over a referral to a good therapist. But I want you to understand, there's no shame in going to a hospital. I think you're higher risk than you're letting on, but I also think you're telling the truth, about your friends and about wanting to get better. I want you to give my number to your friends, the ones who've been helping you. They might have questions or concerns. Obviously, there's patient doctor confidentiality, but I want them, and you, to know you're not alone. Is that okay?”

Stiles nodded, actually grateful for that suggestion. Google was good but a real-life, real-time professional was better.

She wasn't done, however. “When you used to have your panic attacks after your mother died, did you take anything for them?”

He shook his head. “I usually just rode them out. At the time, I was too young for anything too strong.”

“Would you like something? To help or in case you have a really bad attack?”

He shook his head again.

“All right,” she said. “If you change your mind, let the therapist know, okay?” She shifted in her seat and sighed, looking at him sideways. “And another thing: when you went to Widow's Peak, you said it wasn't a 'conscious decision.'”

“Oh, no!” Stiles said, suddenly alarmed. Her repeating it back to him made him realize how it sounded. “I didn't lose time or black out! I mean, kind of... but, no, that's not... I'm not losing time.”

“If it ever happens again, I want you to tell someone immediately. Me, your therapist, a friend. Someone. Okay?” It was obvious from the way she ignored his attempts to head off that line of thinking that she wasn't going to be fooled by his optimism. He liked her.

They spent the next ten minutes discussing medicine and journal log ideas, to keep track of his weight and number of panic attacks in a week to better diagnose any triggers he might have. He knew his triggers, most of them anyway, and even if he found new ones, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to tell her or his therapist about them. Still, maybe it would help writing them down and letting Derek or one of the others read the entries.

She assured him several times that he wasn't alone, that there was no shame in how he was feeling, and that all he needed to do was ask for help.

All that did was make his cheeks burn in embarrassment. He's heard and read the lines often enough that he was used to being on the other side of them. It never really, fully occurred to him what this side felt like.

He had a therapist appointment scheduled before he even left the office and he handed both the appointment card and his prescriptions to Derek when he got in the car.

“I'm sorry,” Stiles said as he buckled himself in.

“For what?” Derek asked.

“I didn't let her read the letters.”

“I didn't ask you to.”

Stiles looked at Derek. “But you said –”

“I asked you to bring them. Which you did. You even told her about them. Nothing to apologize for, Stiles. If anything, I should thank you.”

Stiles thought back to Derek's words. “You tricky little bastard.”

Derek's lips twitched.


	4. Chapter 4

That night, Derek was on Stiles Watch. Stiles was a little disappointed, to be honest. He'd been getting used to Erica and Isaac in bed with him and now the bed felt lonely and cold, despite the summer heat seeping in through his windows. There was no way in hell he was going to ask Derek was crawl in bed next to him. That was a can of worms he was deliberately avoiding. The iPod lay on the table next to him but, for some reason, Stiles felt weird putting the headphones in with Derek sitting in the computer chair not ten feet away.

At two in the morning, when he still hadn't fallen asleep and the sheets were decidedly noose-like around his body, Derek spoke. “Do you have trouble falling asleep every night or is it just because I'm here?”

Stiles winced. “Both?”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

Derek sighed but let the matter drop. “What are you thinking about?”

It bothered Stiles how intimate that question seemed. “Things.”

“And stuff?”

Stiles smiled. “Yeah. I'm thinking about things and stuff.”

“Nice to see you're being honest and forthcoming in talking about your problems.”

Just like that, Derek took the conversation from mildly goofy to painfully serious. Stiles felt instantly angry at the stab of guilt he felt right then. “Are you serious right now, Derek? Back off. I had a long day.”

“You know every day has the exact same amount of hours, right?”

“Are you trying to piss me off right now?”

“A little bit.”

That brought Stiles up short. “Why?”

It took a few moments for Derek to respond. The room was too dark for Stiles to see Derek's face and Stiles squirmed in the sheets. Even after all these years, Stiles was still able to read Derek and light would have helped Stiles to be able to see where this was going. “You're complacent,” Derek said softly. “Calm. Subdued. You don't joke like you used to. You don't smile as easily. There's lethargy in everything you do.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Shut up. My point is, when you're angry, that all changes. There's fire in your eyes. You're quick, both physically and mentally.”

Stiles didn't know what to say.

“Part of me,” Derek continued, “likes to see that part of you. The other part of me is assured by it. I know that, when the day comes when I can't piss you off anymore... well, I just hope I never see that day.”

Stiles tried to sigh but felt suffocated by the sheets, so he floundered for a moment untangling himself and throwing them to the floor. “I hate talking about it,” Stiles said, sprawled across his bed. “About everything. Anything. I feel like a whiny jerk. Or a broken record. And it doesn't matter what you say because I know it's annoying and I know I'm a burden.”

“You're not –” Derek started to say.

“Whatever, Derek, it doesn't help when you tell me I'm not, I just feel like you're saying it to make me feel better.”

“I jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge.”

It was so sudden and strange of a statement that Stiles spluttered before hissing, “What?”

“It didn't even occur to me that sometimes humans survive so obviously I would survive. Sometimes, being in a world build for and catered to humans, I forget that I'm not one. Anyway, when I got back home, to where Laura and I were staying, she just looked at me. Smelled me. Knew what I had done. But she didn't say anything. Not a single word. She just looked at me like she was disappointed. I don't want you to feel like that. I'd rather say the wrong thing than say nothing at all.”

“You never told me that,” Stiles said quietly.

“Didn't seem necessary. I'm not traumatized by it or anything. She loved me, I loved her. None of that was ever in doubt. Still. It hurt.”

“Why'd you jump?”

“Why do you think?”

Stiles felt a claw of anger slice him open. “You know, this is one of the problems we had during our relationship. You never told me deep, important life events, and whenever you did, you responded to all my questions with questions, dodging the answers like a fucking pro. Yet, you turn around and expect me to bare my soul to you.”

“I don't know what you want from me, Stiles,” Derek said, exasperated.

“Why'd you break up with me?” Stiles did not intend for that to come out, even if it had been the single most frequent question in his mind. But it seemed that now, in the dark, at nearly three in the morning was a perfectly fine time to broach the subject.

“Stiles...”

“Honestly, Derek, I want to know. I need to know. I deserve to know.”

“Stiles...” Derek repeated. He sounded torn up.

Clarissa's face came back to his mind. How she'd said she liked Stiles. The way she'd carefully dodged the “L” word. “Did you stop loving me? Did you ever love me at all?” It tore at him to ask the questions, knowing no answer would make him feel better or even okay. He was just tormenting himself by asking the questions but he couldn't stop himself.

“Stiles... I told you. On Widow's Peak. I loved you. I never lied about that.”

“So you stopped? You fell out of love? Did I do something?”

“No, Stiles... damn it,” Derek whispered. “I've never stopped loving you.”

Stiles turned towards Derek, knowing and not caring that it was still too dark to see him. And then it was like a carton of eggs being dropped inside him, a shattering within him, some invisible weight having been released but Stiles wasn't sure what it was or where it went. But suddenly he realized three in the morning is a horrible time to have this conversation as he felt the crashing of a panic attack form.

He rolled over and curled in on himself, pulling his knees under him, against the mattress, shaping himself into a ball like a Roly Poly bug even though he knew it wouldn't help his breathing at all and would, in fact, probably make it worse. He didn't care. The closet was too far away and he needed to hide.

Derek was beside him instantly, a warm hand on his back. “Shit, Stiles, did I... Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't...”

Coupled with the effect of his cursing, which, okay, Derek cursed a lot but he rarely said the “F” word, and with the apology that Stiles didn't want to hear, he didn't even know what he was doing until his lips were on Derek's, his arms around his neck. He had a fleeting though of how strange it was that even in the dark and the heat of a panic attack, Stiles's lips were able to find Derek's.

Then Derek was pushing him away, gently. “No, Stiles, we can't...”

But Stiles wasn't listening. “Please, please, Derek, help me, please, make me feel something. Please. You said... you said I was lethargic and subdued except when I'm angry. But you don't need to make me angry, Derek. Please... this...” Every few words, Stiles was planting little desperate kisses all over Derek's face and lips. Then he was panting, a mix of the panic attack still not completely subsided, and want, and he pressed his cheek to Derek's cheek, his lips against Derek's ear. “Please, help me _feel_.”

And then Derek was crashing their lips together, a welcome pain of the clash of teeth, and Stiles could feel tears trickle out of his eyes but he'd be damned if he knew what they were for.

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 The next day, Lydia reserved his time all to herself – no werewolves allowed. Which wasn't a problem when it came to Derek, considering he'd disappeared in the middle of the night. Isaac had been on the couch when Stiles got up, chatting amicably with the Sheriff, but when Lydia walked in the door, Isaac didn't stand a chance. Not many people did against Lydia, supernatural or not.

Stiles was sure Isaac didn't stray out of hearing distance anyway.

Once they'd both gotten a cup of coffee and said goodbye to his dad as he left for work, Lydia dragged him back upstairs to his room.

“When is your first session with your therapist?” she asked as she booted up his computer. He had no idea what she was planning but he didn't bother asking – Lydia would explain herself when she felt it was time for him to know and not before.

“Couple of weeks,” he said. At the start-up screen was a picture of the pack, during their senior year in high school, everyone wearing sunglasses so the picture would come out fine. Derek's arm was around Stiles's waist, hand resting on his hip, and Stiles felt like he was in the moment all over again. The previous night certainly helped him to remember exactly what Derek's touch felt like.

He clicked the web browser instantly and the image was replaced by the Google homepage.

“Okay, we're going to clean up your resume and start sending it out, all right?”

“I don't really think...” he started to say.

“Listen. You've got to be pro-active about this. Look to the future. And it'll be good to show the therapist that you're planning your future. So. This is what we have to do.” Her tone and the way she pinned him with her eyes left no room for argument.

_But I'm not planning my future,_ he thought. _You are._ But this was typical Lydia. Barring the Peter trauma and the week after her and Jackson broke up, Lydia wasn't one for dwelling. Her cure was putting things behind her and moving on. Usually, he admired that in her. Now, it was just annoying.

Why couldn't he dwell? Why shouldn't he dwell? He'd killed his girlfriend. He deserved to dwell, to drown in self-hatred.

At least dwelling distracted him from remembering what happened with Derek the previous night. He didn't exactly regret what had happened but the entire thing was confusing. His mind felt like imploding every time he started thinking about it. At least thinking about Clarissa was a sure thing. Guilt. Self-hatred. Pain, lots of pain. He'd spend so long swimming in these emotions that they were almost a comfort.

But when he looked at Lydia, her big, beautiful eyes, he pulled out his transcript and opened his most recently updated resume for her to peruse. He might not be in love with her anymore but there was very little he could deny of her.

For the next couple of days, she proceeded to search for jobs for him and send out applications. With each passing hour, he felt the tension rising. He was imagining interviews, polite refusals with comments like “the position's been filled” and knowing that someone else was better than him, that they liked someone more than him. Or there would be smiles and talks of salary, first days, new coworkers. He couldn't help but remember how this is exactly what he and Clarissa were going to do right around this time of the summer: start applying to jobs. Then he found himself imagining what it would have been like had she lived. He'd be happy, maybe a little annoyed at the Pack situation with his dad, but he'd be able to ignore it for the most part. He'd put his foot down and tell the wolves that dinners were his, Stilinski family members only. He'd call Clarissa on Skype, maybe watch a movie or two with her, say mushy things to each other, maybe participate in some late night kink sessions. But no matter what, he'd have her. Someone who was his whole world, who thought of him as their whole world.

Except that he hadn't been. Her whole world. That thought always brought him up short in his delusions.

It was weird applying for jobs, doing the exact thing he'd planned on doing exactly when he'd planned on doing it, when so many other things in his life were turned upside down. Before, he would have been able to deal with it all because he had something to look forward to. He'd never wanted to come back to Beacon Hills but he'd faced the inevitability with optimism because of Clarissa. Now, he had nothing. 

All he kept thinking about was sitting in the student advisement meeting, Clarissa and him writing up their resumes but kicking each other under the table the whole time. Stiles throwing paper airplanes at Clarissa, her plucking them out of the air easily. Stiles wondered how he could ever be a therapist or have a profession involving reading people when he spent four years with a werewolf and never had a clue. Even all the times they drank together, Stiles was the only one who got drunk, even though Clarissa drank as much as him. He never questioned it.

Under the desk, Stiles had to pinch himself repeatedly to bring himself back to the present, to Lydia helping him, Lydia's scent of perfume so subtle yet powerful to bringing back a sense of nostalgia. He was pretty sure his leg was going to be a series of black and blue marks.

And sure, Lydia was his best friend but Lydia was destined for great things, things not in Beacon Hills. And the rest of the pack was being nice to him but maybe it was just because he was depressed. Or because Derek told them to. Maybe they were going to stop once he got better. They let him go once, right? Who's to say it couldn't happen again? Maybe they were just pitying him now and when he was deemed healthy again, they'd ditch him and he'd be back to square one. Only, this time he wouldn't even have his father to fall back on.

He didn't want to think about Derek but his mind seemed to be stuck on the situation with him. Everything with Derek was a clusterfuck. Were they going to get back together? Were they already back together? Or was it a pity thing? A Fuck Buddy thing? If he did still have feelings for Derek which, who was he kidding, of course he still had feelings for Derek, well, maybe last night fucked everything up. Stiles didn't think he could take that.

And then there was his father.

And after two solid days of letting the anxiety practically swallow him whole, he begged off on Lydia, making up some story about the anti-depressants making him tired and grumpy, and besides, he had enough to bring with him to the first therapy session as it was. She was wary but he threw on his best chipper voice, added a yawn or two for good measure, and somehow got her to back off.

Erica, sitting next to him throughout the entire phone call, raised an eyebrow at him. He felt an overwhelming love for her when she kept silent.

Despite his relief over getting a day to himself, a day not dedicated to planning a future he didn't have, he realized that having Lydia there had been a buffer and a catalyst. In the company of others, maybe Lydia especially, he put on a brave face. Even if he didn't believe it, pretending actually seemed to help. But her presence meant thinking, about the future, about the past, about the crushing weight of the present. Her absence took away the buffer but not the catalyst – he had no one, really, besides Erica, to put on a brave face for anymore.

It had been days since his last panic attack and when it hit, it seemed to Stiles as if it had been biding its time, building momentum and strength, so that when it finally washed over him as the lock clicked in place as his dad left for work, Stiles didn't even have time to run from the table to hide in his closet. Instead, he tipped the chair over and dove under the table.

Erica's hair brushed the floor as she leaned over to look at him. He wanted to push her away but he wasn't even close enough to touch her. Luckily, the table was tall so he wasn't cramped. Also luckily, Erica was wearing jeans and not a skirt like she normally did.

“What triggered it?” she asked softly. Sometimes talking about what had caused the attack helped.

“'What triggered it?'” he mocked, angrily, childishly. He knew he wasn't being fair, knew he was being immature and rash, and yet the words kept coming. “Shut the fuck up, Erica, and leave me alone.”

“Did I do something?” she asked.

“Yes, because everything revolves around you.”

“I'm just trying to help, Stiles.”

He was reminded again of how she had kept up on what was going on in his life, had stayed tuned in even if she never communicated with him, but instead of feeling warm and fuzzy, he felt angry. A lid opened up inside of him, of a box he didn't even know existed, and he instantly tried to shut it as he heard the poison that poured out of it. “You always think you're helping but you're not, you're making it worse. So you kept up on my life, my jeep, probably my grades and classes, too, and you think you deserve a cookie or something. You never called or wrote. You were nothing more than a stalker, and you know what, I didn't keep up on you. You were a chapter in my life that was done and gone, good fucking riddance. You think now it's all good, we're okay, fine fucking dandy, but we're not, we're not fucking fine, Erica, nothing is fucking fine, okay? If you were so involved in my fucking life, why didn't you know Clarissa was a fucking werewolf?! Why didn't you stop her? Why didn't you help me? You want to help now but you didn't help then and now it's too fucking late, Erica. So just stop trying, just, stop fucking trying!”

Her hair was still where it kissed the floor, as if it was caught in the heat of passion by a sobering thought, realized what it was doing, and froze in terror and shame. Then she was gone. He heard the door as it slammed shut.

Even through his haze, he found it interesting the way the betas still used doors instead of windows like Derek was prone to. Like they were still more human than wolf.

Alone, finally completely alone for the first time in weeks, Stiles curled into a ball and let the panic take him. Lately, they'd only lasted for fifteen or twenty minutes at most, but Stiles knew that was because of the pack's presence. His attacks died down a lot faster when he had company, someone to talk to or hold him through it. But this time, like so many times years ago when he'd woken in the middle of the night and managed to not wake his father as well, the panic seized him, gripped him, shook him apart and, right when he thought he was getting his bearings, it crashed over him anew. He'd spent hours before, silently sobbing his way through them and his dad only had to look at him once in the morning before picking up the phone to feed some excuse to the receptionist at school as to why Stiles would be absent.

It was a conundrum: he hated people watching him during a panic attack and he hated panic attacks themselves, but having company would make the panic attack go away a lot faster.

So he was both glad that Erica was gone and pissed at himself for pushing her away. And she really had been trying to help, which upset him even more. He sorely hoped he wasn't still there when his dad got home from work but he wouldn't be surprised if he was.

He jumped as the door opened and shut an indeterminate amount of time later, a dozen possibilities racing through his head as to who it could be. Then he saw some dark blue jeans and Boyd sinking down cross-legged opposite him.

They stared at each other for a few moments. An urge welled up in him to lash out, to drive Boyd out of the house, like he'd driven Erica out. If it had been anyone else, he probably would have. He would have used Isaac's father against Isaac, or Jackson against Lydia, or Kate against Allison. He might have even used Scott's dad against Scott. But Boyd was an enigma. Anything he might have used against him seemed hollow and it occurred to Stiles that maybe that was because Stiles didn't know what Boyd held most dear in his life.

Or maybe he'd already attacked the most important thing in Boyd's life.

Stiles felt himself calming, slowly, just from Boyd's presence. He hated himself for being so dependent on others.

“What's going on with you, man?” Boyd asked once Stiles had been breathing regularly for a few minutes.

Stiles shrugged weakly, realizing that, when Erica had gone, he could have gotten up and ransacked the house. He knew his dad's secret hiding spot for his back pain medication.

He knew logically that sometimes a side effect of anti-depressants was an increase in suicidal thoughts but he pushed away the logical part of his mind and decided to berate himself for the lost opportunity instead.

Then he felt a crushing shame sweep over him, that so many people were so invested in keeping him alive but all he could think about was how he should have used their absence to take his own life.

“Stiles?”

Stiles blinked at Boyd and realized Boyd had been talking. “What?”

“Will you please come out from under there?”

Stiles took a moment to think about it and decided that since Boyd had asked so nicely, and since his back was starting to ache from the position, he would acquiesce. Once he was standing, he found he couldn't look Boyd in the eyes.

Boyd solved the problem and ended the increasingly awkward moment by steering Stiles in the living room, turning on Netflix, and pressing play on the first episode of Sliders. No words were spoken. Stiles didn't know if Boyd knew Stiles would enjoy the show, or maybe he turned it on for himself, and Stiles kind of hoped it was the latter. Everyone was being so selfless, a little selfishness would be oddly welcome.

It felt good to watch the show. The panic attack had left him drained and somehow, because it was Boyd, Stiles didn't feel pressured to talk or put on a front. He found himself just watching the show, letting go – Not Thinking.

It was nice while it lasted.

After three episodes, Boyd hit pause and turned to Stiles. “I'm going to order pizza,” he said. “And you are going to eat at least two slices.”

“Okay,” Stiles said hesitantly.

“And then Erica is going to come back and you're going to apologize to her.”

Stiles swallowed. “Okay.”

“And then we're going to talk. _You're_ going to talk.”

“About what?”

“Anything. Everything. Whatever you want.”

Stiles yanked a pillow out from under him, having worn out its welcome as a back support.

“Okay?” Boyd prompted.

“I guess,” Stiles relented. “All right, but I don't know exactly what you want from me.”

“Just words, Stiles. Just words.”

Stiles shrugged. “Okay. You want me to yammer. I can yammer. I can yammer like it's nobody's business. And chatter. And blabber. Sometimes blubber. I hope you don't want me to blubber, though.”

“Stiles,” Boyd sighed. “What do you want on your pizza?”

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  _The shot rang out, deafening in a way Stiles was familiar with but hadn't heard in years, and despite the situation, he struggled to maintain his cool._

_Clarissa's momentum lagged, caught right as she was about to leap at him, and she dropped to the ground a few feet away from him. His hand felt numb from the recoil but he didn't move except to follow her to the ground with the pistol, in case his aim had been off._

_Then she gurgled, black blood oozing from her mouth._

_He gave a sob, tossed the gun away, and dove to her side, oblivious of the pain shooting up his arm as he steadied himself next to her. The poison was moving through her a lot faster than it had in Derek that one time, when he'd been shot in the arm and Stiles had almost cut it off for him. Stiles's aim was true, had gotten her right in the chest and if it didn't hit her heart then it was damn close._

_The blood was pouring out of the wound, drenching her shirt, and he lifted her so he could cradle her in his lap. He wanted to fix her, he wanted to call Deaton, he wanted his very own time machine so he could undo it, because he knew, as he watched the blackness pouring out of her mouth, as he listened to her whines of pain, he knew he would never forget this moment. It was being etched into his brain in slow motion, every single detail._

_The woman he loved was dying in his arms._

_He realized he was talking, sobbing, and he wiped his eyes angrily. He did this, he deserved to have to watch it all without the veil of tears to soothe the pain, to numb the blow. “I'm sorry,” he said, he'd been saying, repeating it over and over again, as if it mattered, as if she was going to clear her throat and tell him it was okay, that she'd forgiven him already._

_She stared up into his eyes, her hands scrambling for purchase on his shirt, his arm, making him wince but she didn't seem to notice. The black liquid kept oozing down the sides of her mouth, no matter how much he wiped it away and her veins in her throat and face turned color, the poison now spread throughout her entire body._

_Then, with a twitch and a fine spray of blood in a last ditch effort to purge her system of the wolfsbane, her eyes flashed red and then dimmed, glossing over with death._

_He didn't know how or why but no one seemed to have heard the gunshot. No police officers knocked on the door, no neighbors making sure everything was all right. He stayed like that for hours without a single interruption._

_Finally, he placed a call to Deaton, giving only enough details so Deaton knew this was an emergency, and Deaton promised he'd get a friend over to the apartment to clean up._

_To clean up. As if she were a mess. As if Stiles had made a mess to clean up, to fix._

_He looked at her hands after he hung up the phone, remembering just last week how he'd tried to figure out her ring size just from sight alone. Now he noticed she was wearing her school ring, which she must have gotten over the weekend. He gently tugged it off, studied it for a moment, and then slipped it into his pocket. Why or what for, he couldn't have said._

_It was all a blur after that. Deaton's friend showing up, demanding Stiles hand over all blood-stained clothing. How he'd remarked on it being a good thing Stiles had taken out the beast in the kitchen where carpet wouldn't be an issue._

_That was when Stiles had hopped in the Uhaul truck and left, ignoring the man as he protested._

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 So now the whole pack knows, Stiles thought as Isaac stared into the distance, Erica fumbled for more tissues for her streaming eyes, and Boyd just sat there, accepting the story.

Though it was a bit odd how he'd told Scott, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd, but he hadn't actually sat down and told Derek, even though Derek was a main character in the whole situation. Sure, Derek knew, or he knew most of it anyway, but Stiles had never really sat down and told him face to face. All the details Derek had were second hand or from eavesdropping.

“I don't even know why I'm talking about this,” Stiles said. “It's not like it matters.” It was strange how calm he was during the retelling of Clarissa's death. He expected to break down, to cry like Erica was doing, to stutter even a little. He didn't, though. He felt detached and it worried him, how sometimes he could feel like all the emotions in the world were suddenly crashing down on him, all at once, and other times he felt completely devoid of emotions. _A good middle ground would be nice_ , he thought.

“How can you -” Erica started to say but Boyd cut her off.

“That's one, Stiles. Eat another slice.”

Stiles stared at the pizza. He could picture everyone in Derek's apartment, or in Scott's house, or in Lydia's parents' summer cabin, sitting around eating pizza, in various situations: laughing and touching, just chilling, Stiles sitting on Derek's lap, Allison with her legs draped on Scott's knees, Jackson and Lydia refusing to unlink their fingers; after an encounter with a rogue group of Hunters, Scott and Allison worryingly absent, no one touching because for some reason it seemed disrespectful; or even the one time they'd all sat down to watch a movie marathon and everyone was so involved in the movies, the pizza guy had startled all of them, including Derek, when he'd knocked on the door.

“What is it about me?” Stiles asked. He knew it wasn't a complete thought but he was afraid his voice would break if he elaborated.

“What do you mean?” Boyd asked.

“Stiles, there's nothing wrong with you,” Erica said, throwing a glare at Boyd.

Boyd was having none of it, though, and he grabbed Erica, dragging her out of the room.

“I used to think that,” Isaac said softly once they were alone. “My dad never hit us when we were kids. He never hit my brother. So why me? What had I done to deserve it, you know?” Isaac wasn't meeting Stiles's eyes, instead fiddling with the sleeve of his sweater in a characteristically human fashion.

Stiles realized he had more in common with Isaac than he'd previously thought, and it wasn't because of their similar situations of someone betraying them in a violent manner. Stiles and Isaac had more in common because they'd both hated and loved someone who was now dead. The complications that came with that were intense. Of course, it could be said that Derek felt the same for Kate, but Derek would argue that he didn't love Kate.

“It's not you, Stiles. There's nothing wrong with you.”

“It's a little different though, isn't it?” He didn't want to shoot Isaac down but his filter seemed to be busted. “Your dad hit you. Who knows why? Maybe his brain broke when your brother died, or he had PTSD or something. But it wasn't like you had a group of people against you.” Stiles bit his tongue to prevent the diarrhea of the mouth that threatened to spew. He wanted to knock Isaac down, he wanted to make Isaac realize just how alone he'd felt. Derek had adopted Isaac into the Pack without batting an eye, gave him a place to live. A place to belong, no questions asked, no take-backs. But with Stiles... he was in the Pack. He'd been with Derek. And the Pack was supposed to be like family, but when Derek broke up with him, they all shut him out. Completely. “And then Clarissa happened, falling in love, head over fucking heels because I can't fall in love any other way apparently, and then I just... felt like I'd been betrayed. Again.” _And_ , Stiles thought, _then I come back home to find that my dad is more yours than he is mine._ “It feels a little like... like people find me amusing or entertaining and then... it's like everyone loses interest. I lose my charm or my appeal.”

“No, Stiles, that's not -” Isaac started to say.

“Stop,” Stiles said softly. “Everyone keeps using that tone with me. Like I'm breakable. Like you all pity me. It feels like you're talking down to me and I hate it. This is why I keep my thoughts to myself.”

“We're just trying to be understanding,” Erica said as she and Boyd walked back into the room.

“I don't -” Stiles started to say but then he cut himself off and rubbed his face. He had been about to say that he didn't want them to be understanding but that wasn't exactly what he meant. He didn't know how to explain what he felt without sounding like an asshole. Because even if he did come off as being an asshole, they wouldn't call him out on it, because they were being so understanding and that was worse than actually being an asshole.

“You don't want us to be understanding?” Boyd asked with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles stood up and took to pacing. His stomach had started churning and he hoped movement would settle it down. “I don't know what I want.”

“Derek asked us not to bother you,” Isaac said. “When you moved away.”

“Oh, so it's all Derek's fault now?” Stiles asked. Then he cringed. It felt like he was defending Derek's actions, but he wasn't, he just wanted them to own up.

“No, that's not -” Isaac started to say.

“Well, he _is_ the Alpha,” Boyd said. “When he says jump, we're supposed to ask how high.”

“Oh yeah, because you all have been so good with following orders in the past, huh?”

“We are when it matters,” Boyd said softly. “And you matter.”

Stiles stopped pacing.

“Derek and you had dated for what, two years?” Erica said. “If anyone knew you and what you needed, it was Derek, right? It's only logical, right?”

“He said you were better off,” Isaac said softly.

Stiles stared at them, replaying the breakup scene in his head, standing in Derek's loft, in front of the entire pack, no one meeting his eyes, Derek's red with Alpha spirit, and shook his head in disbelief. “And you just believed him? You couldn't...” Stiles had to pause to fight for control of his voice as it threatened to break. “You couldn't see how hurt I was?”

“Of course we could,” Erica said. “It broke our hearts to see you like that.”

“He didn't just break up with me that day,” Stiles said “He broke me and the Pack up. He broke the Pack family up. _And you let him_.”

All three of them went silent and he watched as their eyes sank to the floor, suddenly unable to meet his.

“No matter what Derek said or did,” he continued, “you let it happen. You say I matter but, even though you knew I was hurting, I didn't matter enough for you guys to disobey Derek. To make sure I was okay.”

“He had us check up on you. Regularly,” Erica offered.

Stiles felt like she'd just stabbed his heart. “Oh, so it wasn't even something _you_ wanted to do, it was something he made you do?”

A little bit of red tinged Erica's cheeks. “That's not -”

“Besides, that was for _his_ peace of mind. It was for _him_. That wasn't for me. It's not for me if I don't know about it.” He took a deep breath, tired all of a sudden of the situation, the conversation. He just wanted it to be over. “I'm sorry. It's fine. I understand. You just did -”

“Stop,” Boyd said. “Just stop. I asked you to yammer. You're yammering. It's fine. Besides, you're right.”

“I am?”

Isaac and Erica looked at Boyd questioningly. He ignored them. “Not about us not caring. About the fact that we should have disobeyed. We should have stood up for you. With you. For that, I'm sorry.”

Stiles stared at him for a moment. He hadn't really expected Boyd to agree or apologize.

“I didn't do it just for him,” Erica muttered.

“That's true,” Isaac said. “Usually, the minute someone mentioned you, Erica was offering to hop a plane to check up on you.”

Erica blushed. “Shut up,” she hissed.

“There's nothing wrong with you,” Isaac said to Stiles, ignoring Erica. “Maybe we suck at showing it, but we've never stopped thinking of you as part of the Pack.”

Stiles started to roll his eyes.

“Cut it out,” Boyd snapped. Stiles jumped and couldn't help but think Boyd was going to make a good teacher. “It's true. You think if we cut you out of the Pack, we would actually take on suicide watch for you? Or buy you an iPod or sleep with you?”

“Yes,” Stiles said without hesitation. “If Derek told you to. If you pitied me.”

“Is that what you think? That we pity you?” Erica asked, appalled.

Stiles didn't say anything, which was answer enough.

Then all three of them looked to the front door and, a moment later, Stiles heard his father pull into the driveway. They stood up and, one by one, they hugged him, kissed his forehead, and retreated up the stairs silently, before his father even entered the house.

Boyd, the last of the three to leave the room, hesitated, his lips still hovering over his skin. “We're on your team, Stiles. All you ever have to do is ask and we'll be right there.” Then Stiles was alone in the living room.

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 He managed to eat a second slice of pizza as his dad came in and grabbed himself a slice. Stiles even managed to make small talk with his dad for the first time in days, getting the inside scoop on the local dealings around Beacon Hills. Stiles could tell his dad was skirting any Pack related issues, which ended up being really annoying because there was definitely something big going on with the Pack that no one was telling Stiles about. Stiles didn't press it, though. He knew it was Derek's place, or Scott's, to tell him what was going on – to ask his dad would actually border on rude.

After the strange intervention-slash-story-time situation with Boyd, Erica, and Isaac, though, Stiles was feeling oddly confession-y. If the Pack still thought of him as Pack, despite everything that had happened, maybe he could let his father in on everything. His father still didn't even know Stiles was bi or that he'd had a serious relationship with Derek. He didn't know why he and Clarissa actually broke up. He certainly didn't know Stiles was depressed or that his panic attacks were back.

And maybe Lydia had a point. If he really showed progress with everything at his first therapy session, maybe it would go better for him in the long run.

But then he wondered if Isaac could have been lying. A part of Stiles was sure he wasn't, was sure that Isaac wasn't _that_ good at lying to sleep with him nightly without even a hint of discomfort or reluctance. But there was still a part of him that whispered doubts and self-loathing. And wouldn't he seem like the biggest moron if he actually believed them, that they really truly cared about him, and it turned out that they were actually lying.

And if they were lying, or even if they weren't, Stiles had let his father down so many times, had failed him, had ruined his life, with Stiles's mom being the one to die instead of Stiles, with Stiles messing with his food all the time, losing touch during college, lying about pretty much everything that mattered, and finally doing the one thing that the Sheriff had dedicated his life to stopping and preventing – murder.

What's a romantic breakup compared to that? Maybe the Pack could forgive him and move on, but that was just a breakup, a silly little love affair. That was nothing compared to murder, to disappointing your father in the biggest, worst way possible.

Stiles didn't even realize he'd worked himself into a panic attack until his father was in his face, hands on Stiles's shoulders, practically begging to know what was wrong.

Stiles jerked away from his father. He didn't deserve the kindness, the support, the affection. And his father didn't deserve to be infected by Stiles.

“I'm sorry,” Stiles said. The look on his father's face when he'd jerked away meant Stiles needed to apologize. Stiles didn't know what had gone through his dad's mind at that moment, but it hadn't been good and it was probably wrong.

“For what?” his dad asked gently. The Sheriff wasn't usually gentle. They had such an understanding that even when the Sheriff yelled or cuffed Stiles in the head, it didn't need to be said that he wasn't actually angry. And even when he was angry, he wasn't gentle, he was just loose, laid back, apathetic almost, which was always worse than anger but at least Stiles knew where he stood at that point. But here the Sheriff was, being gentle when they both knew he didn't really need to be, which made Stiles realize that his father knew something was desperately wrong. Had probably known for a while that something was desperately wrong. Stiles even took the time to notice that his dad had rings under his eyes. How many nights had his father stayed up wondering what was going on with Stiles, wanting to talk to him but waiting for Stiles to come to him instead?

Stiles felt steel fingers lock around his heart.

And Stiles couldn't say he was sorry for flinching away or for making his dad think something was wrong, which it was but probably not in any way his dad thought. And besides, there were so many other things to be sorry about, but where did he start?

“Derek and I dated,” Stiles blurted out. It wasn't what he'd meant to say, it wasn't how he wanted to start the conversation, but it seemed like every secret he'd been hanging on to wanted to leap out at once, tact be damned. “In high school,” he clarified. Then he realized he was trembling and started fidgeting to try to stop. His breathing was miraculously under control, though still a little too heavy for his liking.

“Okay,” his dad said hesitantly after a moment or two, releasing Stiles and sinking into a chair opposite him.

“Okay? That's it? Are you at all surprised?”

“Yeah, I'm a little surprised but... Stiles... that's not what you're upset about.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, unless you've been lying to me about Clarissa, then it was a long time ago. You've gotten over it by now.”

At the mention of Clarissa, Stiles stopped trembling. Only it wasn't a calm stillness that overcame him, it was more like the calm before the storm, like his body was taking one last deep breath of stillness before shattering apart. “Clarissa's dead,” he said.

“What?” his dad asked.

“She's dead.” Stiles swallowed. “I killed her.”

His father stared at him for a long moment. Then his eyebrows creased, in the way that suggested barely reined in anger. “What do you mean, you killed her?”

Stiles swallowed loudly. “She was a werewolf. She was going to kill Derek. Maybe the rest of the Pack. I didn't want to.” That was when the tears formed, clouding his vision, nearly choking him with the lump in his throat. “I didn't want to, Dad.” He hadn't really said that to anyone, he realized. It was implied and assumed, but he'd never actually said it. It felt good to say.

His dad remained motionless where he sat at the table, his eyes looking over Stiles's shoulder. Stiles was back to trembling minutely, a cold rock settling in the pit of his stomach. It was too late to turn back now. “When did this happen?” his father asked calmly.

“After you left. Graduation weekend.”

His father ran a hand through his hair, then leaned back and crossed his arms. “Take it from the top, Stiles. Tell me everything.”

So he did. He told his dad about how Derek and he had been together but then, before he went to college, they broke up. He left out the details, about how exactly Derek had broken up with him, because he could only recount one horrible story at a time, but it was important for his dad to know because the smell of Derek on Stiles was what drew Clarissa to him in the first place. He told his dad about how Clarissa had known right from the beginning but had kept it a secret from Stiles, that Stiles didn't even know she was a werewolf until that dreadful day. He recounted how she always talked him out of visiting Beacon Hills, which in retrospect Stiles realized was probably because she didn't want the Pack to smell her on him. He told his dad how he'd gotten over Derek but that didn't mean he stopped caring about the Pack and if Clarissa had gone through with her plan and attacked Derek, she would have essentially been attacking the Pack. And even though Stiles hadn't known at the time that his father was involved in Pack business, he was still the Sheriff, and a bunch of dead kids would certainly make him involved, one way or another.

Stiles picked at his cast the entire time he spoke, not wanting to meet his father's eyes, to see the disappointment there, or worse.

“She broke your arm,” his father said when he'd finished.

“Yeah,” Stiles confirmed.

“She was an Alpha,” his father said.

Stiles nodded.

“She was going to kill Derek, and possibly the rest of the Pack.”

Stiles nodded again. He felt tense all over and regretted the two slices of pizza Boyd convinced him to eat.

“And if you tried to stop her, or warn the Pack, she was going to kill you. Or bite you.”

Stiles remembered the way her eyes had flashed, the way her entire body had prepared, rippled with muscles as she readied herself to attack him once she realized he was a true threat. “Yeah,” he whispered. He could still hear the gunshot ringing out, her crumpled body, the black blood oozing out of her mouth. The look of surprise and betrayal in her eyes right before they went dark.

The Sheriff got up, grabbed Stiles, and clutched him to his chest, in an embrace more intense than any he remembered in high school, including the time Gerard had kidnapped and tortured him.

“Dad?” This wasn't what he'd expected. He'd expected his dad to yell, or worse, to silently leave the table and later tell him he had X amount of time to move out. He expected his dad to arrest him or at the very, very least tell him how disappointed he was in him. “Aren't you mad?”

His dad pulled away just enough to look at him incredulously, his grip on Stiles's shoulders borderline painful. “Mad? Stiles... I could have lost you.”

“But... I killed her. You're a Sheriff.”

Then he was being crushed again and he lightly rested his casted arm across his dad's back, accepting the hug but not necessarily returning it. “If you hadn't, there's no doubt in my mind that she would have killed you.”

“You didn't know her, Dad. She might not have... there might have been another way.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“I don't know...” Stiles felt his breath hitch. “You're not supposed to hug me for this. You're supposed to call me a murderer, tell me there was another way, throw me out, disown me -”

“Are you kidding me right now, Stiles? You're my son. You're not a murderer. I don't think I could throw you out, even if you were. You are my son. I will never give up on you like that.” That was apparently the sentence that Stiles needed to hear because then his fingers were gripping the back of his dad's shirt, his arm throbbing as he flexed it, tightening his hold on his father. “Oh, Stiles. Is this what's been bothering you? Kiddo, you gave her a chance. I know you did. You gave her multiple chances. And even with a broken arm, you took down an Alpha. I hate to say it because I know how much you cared about her, but I'm _proud_ of you, Stiles. And I'm so sorry you had to do it alone.” By now, Stiles was outright sobbing. He didn't know how or why, but his dad seemed to be saying all the right things. “But you're not, you're not alone anymore. You hear me? I know about the Pack. And it doesn't matter what happened with you and Derek, I know the Pack well enough by now to know they love you, okay? They haven't stopped hovering for the last two weeks. So don't ever hesitate to ask for help, okay? We're here.”

And then Stiles was sobbing even harder, so much so he was finding it difficult to even breathe, because his dad was hugging him and saying he was proud of him because Stiles had defended himself, saved himself from almost certain death, but the last big secret he hadn't yet told his dad was that, despite killing Clarissa to save his life, just two weeks after that he'd nearly walked off a cliff, in fact would have if Derek hadn't been there. The Sheriff was clutching Stiles so forcefully because he had almost lost Stiles but what he didn't know was that he'd almost lost him twice, the second time by Stiles's own decision.

And then Stiles went from thinking his father would hate him because he had killed Clarissa to thinking his father would hate him for almost committing suicide.

But Stiles gave up on forming words altogether and just let his dad hold him the way he had after his mother died. Every once in a while, it felt good to be held by your parent, as if you were the most precious thing in the world. Even if you felt like you didn't deserve it.


	5. Chapter 5

A few days passed in an oddly comfortable yet awkward manner. That is, his father gave him silence and space, which was appreciated because it was exactly what he needed, but also gave him smiles and bought Stiles his favorite cookies (with a stern warning to the wolves that no paws, claws, or hands were to touch them without Stiles's permission). It felt like passive, non-invasive coddling and it seemed to put Stiles more on edge instead of less. He already got a ton of coddling from the pack and getting it from his gruff father was unbearable.

So he took control of his own schedule for the next few days instead of letting the wolves decide for him. First, he had Scott take him to the movie theatre and he caught up on all the latest releases. Putting his feet up on the seats and eating too much popcorn and chocolate uncurled something that had been frozen in the pit of his stomach for a while now. As if, despite the way they'd grown apart and experienced widely different things, despite all that had happened, they could still sit side by side in a theatre, joking about the trailers, reminiscing about the time they walked in on a couple going at it in an empty theatre that was showing a kid's movie, and Scott and Stiles ended up sneaking into an R movie to give them privacy (and the irony was not lost on them). No matter how much time had passed, they fell back into their rhythm seamlessly. Even if he felt like most of his smiles were forced. He knew Scott knew they were forced but he also knew Scott was appreciative of his efforts, and that made all the difference.

Next, he got Lydia to take him shopping. At first glance, it might seem exhausting and boring, but Stiles knew better. Lydia in a clothing store was a Lydia in her element. About as much as if she were in the Science Museum of Minnesota. Stiles knew that if they stayed inside to hang out, she would be drawn to his computer to help him look for jobs or update his resume yet again. That would be far more exhausting, even though Stiles knew she did it out of love. But shopping, she could rattle on about this color and that color and the outfits he already had that looked good and yet he still hadn't worn them. It was easy to fall into a rhythm with Lydia, just like it had been with Scott. In the mall, she seemed to let go, to be perfectly at ease, and Stiles let the conversation drift over into Lydia's life, which he had been missing out on what with everyone focused so intently on him. It gave him a chance to catch up on the volunteer work she was doing over at the Museum in the city, the guys she was interested in, though for true she hadn't seemed even remotely interested in settling down since Jackson left. But she was truly over him, Stiles knew, she just wasn't interested in marriage and kids and the whole package. Not yet.

A couple of days before his first therapy session, the doorbell rang. He glanced up from the television, realizing suddenly that he was alone sprawled out on the couch with a blanket over him, the air conditioning on full blast. Isaac had left the room just a few minutes ago but Stiles had assumed he'd gone to the kitchen or the bathroom. Now, though, the house seemed to have a distinctly empty feel.

He fought his way out of the blanket and answered the door, catching it with his shoulder and leaning on it with his cast. It took a moment of staring before his mouth officially fell open.

“Jackson?”

His hair was slightly longer than it had been in high school, with a natural, scraggly air dried look to it. It still looked like model hair. His cheekbones were still prominent, as Stiles figured they always would be, though he'd put on a few pounds. Stiles figured lacrosse probably wasn't as popular in London.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asked. Jackson was just standing there, staring at him, not moving.

Jackson took a deep breath and Stiles got the impression that he was trying to be inconspicuous about sniffing Stiles. “You want to go get something to eat?”

“Huh?” Stiles said. He hadn't seen Jackson in four years and here he was, on his doorstep, wanting to take him out to eat.

“Food? You know? My treat.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

Jackson's cheeks instantly heated into a light pink and he pursed his lips. “No, Stiles, I'm not asking you out on a date, I'm asking you if you'd like food and I will pay the bill and we can chat. Catch up.”

“Catch up?” Stiles couldn't for the life of him figure out what they would have to catch up on. They'd never really chatted or spoke before Jackson left.

“Oh my god,” Jackson said before grabbing a handful of Stiles's shirt and pulling him out the door, snatching up a pair of shoes before hustling Stiles out to the car.

“Wait, I need to tell Isaac...” Stiles started to say. Then he stopped himself. Jackson didn't know he was on suicide watch. That he couldn't leave without telling someone.

“Don't worry, he knows,” Jackson said, shoving him into the passenger seat and throwing the shoes onto his lap before slamming the door. Stiles was grateful all his fingers and toes were still accounted for.

“Are you angry or have I just forgotten the level of your natural aggression?” Stiles said when Jackson sank into the driver's seat.

“You weren't cooperating. Besides, I remember you got way more physical with me than I ever got with you.”

Stiles had flashbacks to when he punched Jackson in the school, when he chained Jackson up in the van, and the one time in high school when Stiles took a baseball bat to his face. “Well. You deserved it.”

“I don't know about that. The baseball bat was a little excessive.”

“Excuse me, you threw Isaac out of a third story window, I got a little protective.”

Jackson grinned but said nothing.

“When did you get back, anyway?”

“I'm only visiting,” Jackson said. “I just got in today.”

Stiles nodded, not sure exactly how much he was allowed to ask him. Was he allowed to approach the Lydia subject? Or the parents subject? Maybe he should stick to talking about the Pack? But then Jackson might ask _him_ questions and that might be worse.

Instead, they were silent until they slid into a booth at the iHOP and Stiles suddenly realized where he was and what he was doing. He'd been planning to stay inside, curled on his couch under heaps of blankets watching Netflix shows but instead he was in a diner, surrounded by people, with untied shoes and a Packmate who'd been MIA for four years. He fought down the anxiety.

“So, have you seen anyone yet?” Stiles said. He almost mentioned someone on particular, his parents, Lydia, Derek, but he decided at the last minute that going vague was probably for the best.

“No, not yet,” Jackson said, glancing briefly at the menu before setting it aside and linking his hands under his chin to stare at Stiles.

“Are you going to order anything?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah, I know what I want.”

Stiles glared at him before opening his own menu and perusing the options. He couldn't focus on anything, though, instead wondering with increasing anxiety why he was here, with Jackson, alone.

He put the menu down and the eyebrow twitch he received from Jackson made him wonder if maybe Jackson learned a thing or two from Derek before he moved away.

“How long have you been back?” Stiles asked. Silence with Jackson was nowhere near comfortable, never had been. He needed something to talk about.

Jackson looked at his watch. “Two hours.”

Stiles blinked. “Wait. What do you mean?”

“My plane landed two hours ago. I dropped my bags off at the hotel and then went to your place.”

Hotel. As in, not his parents' place. “So. Does anyone else even know you're in town?”

“Isaac knows. Derek probably knows by now, if Isaac is still the puppy he was four years ago.” Though the words were slightly crude and condescending, he said it with a kind of fondness.

Still, Stiles blinked, unable to wrap his head around what Jackson was saying. “So. You just flew in from Europe and the first person you go to see is... me?”

Jackson didn't even have the good grace to look ashamed or embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“Seriously?”

He unwrapped his utensils, finally looking away from Stiles in an almost dejected manner. “What part about this whole thing don't you understand?”

“You don't even like me.”

Jackson's eyes, deep blue and piercing, darted to his as his hands finished placing the napkin on his lap. “Seriously, Stiles? When Isaac told me what had happened, I nearly jumped onto a plane that day.”

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat.

“My coworkers probably hate me right now. I was very... cranky the last few days.”

“Cranky?” Stiles croaked out.

“Knowing what you'd almost done. That I wasn't here to smell you, to check you, to make sure you were okay. I was a mess.”

“A mess? Over me?”

The waiter appeared then with some glasses of water and a pad to take their orders, a wrap and a coffee for Jackson and a milkshake for Stiles. Jackson glared at Stiles at his apparent lack of appetite but all Stiles could do was stare back at him, reeling from his words.

“Remember after I broke up with Lydia?” Jackson said, sipping his water, the condensation already pooling on the table. Stiles nodded for him to continue, unable to speak. “Right before I moved to London. You called me, do you remember that?”

Stiles thought back. “I remember I ripped you a new one.”

Jackson smiled. “Yeah, you ripped me a new one. Which I deserved.” He ran his fingers through his hair before continuing. “You called me, ripped me a new one, and then proceeded to tell me to be safe in London and to never forget that I always had a home here. That even though you never got the bite, and even though I broke Lydia's heart _again,_ you still considered me a brother. Do you remember that?”

“Vaguely...” Stiles said but he knew Jackson could hear his heart. He remembered the conversation. He'd been flying with adrenalin, pissed off at how much Lydia had been crying and also torn because Jackson was a part of the Pack, an essential piece that usually kept Derek in line and the others on their toes, even if it was with his douche bag attitude. He'd realized during that conversation that he was going to miss Jackson.

“That conversation... remembering what you'd said... actually saved my life. A couple of times.” Jackson was sipping from his water again, not meeting Stiles's eyes. “There was one time, when I was a freshman in college, I got on facebook and I sent you a message. Almost instantly, you responded. Even though you were bitching at me for not contacting you sooner, for letting it go for so long, and for choosing a shitty time of the day to contact you, right before classess started for you, but you were still there. You answered. We talked only for about five minutes but... you were there. If you hadn't been there, I'm pretty sure I would have done something stupid.”

Stiles didn't want to hear this. This was Jackson, telling him that he'd been depressed, maybe suicidal, during his college years, and none of them knew it but Stiles somehow saved him? He didn't want to accept it. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I wasn't there for you, Stiles. When you needed someone the most.” Jackson fidgeted in his seat and that, more than anything else he'd done or said, struck Stiles. Jackson didn't fidget.

“Who are you? What are you?”

Jackson stared at him, then rolled his eyes. “It's me, Stiles.”

“No, no, see, Jackson is not nearly this nice or open about his feelings.” Stiles waved at Jackson vaguely with his good hand. “Jackson doesn't fidget. What have you done with Jackson?”

“Four years changes a person, Stiles. I thought you of all people would know that.”

Stiles closed his mouth with a click.

“What the hell happened, Stiles?” Jackson asked, leaning over the table to stare at him. Stiles wanted to call it a glare because of its intensity but there was enough worry and concern in it that he couldn't.

Stiles leaned back and looked out the window. “A lot, I guess,” he said.

“Why didn't you call anyone?”

Stiles felt the tears threatening to make an appearance. He thought he was over this, this dramatic explanation of his feelings and why he didn't ask for help. Why did everyone keep asking him this? “I had no one left, Jackson.”

“Bullshit.” Jackson's glare had turned angry. “You,” he said with a dry chuckle, “you always have someone. You're Stiles. All it would take is one word, one lousy word, and you'd have the whole Pack running to you.”

Stiles swallowed and shook his head. Jackson didn't understand. He'd already left by the time Derek cast him out of the Pack.

“What the hell happened to make you think you were alone?” Jackson asked quietly.

Stiles had to bite his lip to prevent the tears. “I _was_ alone. You don't understand.”

“Explain it to me, then.” Jackson leaned back in the seat, picked a leg up, and crooked it next to him so his knee was visible over the table line. It was such a Jackson thing to do. “The way I see it, the way Isaac explained it, Derek broke your heart. You went off to college. Fell out of touch. Had some... crazy relationship in college that recently ended and now you're back. That about right?”

Stiles squinted as he looked out the window and realized that yeah, Jackson basically had the story. Without all the important little details.

“I went to London. I haven't talked to anyone in years. I broke Lydia's heart. But I'm still part of the Pack. Why would it be any different for you?”

“I'm not a wolf,” Stiles said.

Jackson laughed. “That doesn't matter.”

“You weren't there, Jackson! You didn't see... you didn't hear... And no one... _no one_ came to see me or called to check on me.”

“Not true. Way I hear it, they came to check on you all the time.”

“I never knew about that. Besides, they could be lying.”

Jackson's jaw dropped minutely. “You seriously think they're lying about that?”

“I have no way to know. And it doesn't matter, does it? What's it matter what someone does for someone else if they don't know about it?”

“Because it means _you're still part of the Pack_. You never stopped being part of the Pack. You're still their brother.”

Stiles shook his head, disbelieving.

“Wow,” Jackson said softly. “They broke you good, didn't they?”

Then the waiter was there with their food and Stiles was grateful for the milkshake to occupy his mouth. The straw was a chewed up mess by the time they left.


	6. Chapter 6

The day before his first real therapy session, Derek showed up. Like he always did, in the morning, comfortable in Stiles's computer chair, nonchalant and almost bored as Stiles wiped the sleep out of his eyes.

“Long time no see,” Stiles said, sleep still thick in his voice.

Derek had the good grace to look away, giving Stiles a perfect view of his blushing ears.

It was true, though. Stiles hadn't seen Derek for almost a week, since the night of their romp between the bedsheets. Then when Stiles remembered that, and realized that was probably why Derek was blushing, he looked away, too.

“Any plans today?” Derek asked.

“Nothing as of yet,” Stiles said with a shake of his head. He looked down at his pillows and wondered when Erica, Boyd, and Isaac had left. Isaac and Erica's presence had been normal, when Derek was gone anyway, but Boyd had been making it a habit to spend the night every night since he'd told them all about Clarissa. Stiles had been actively not thinking about the change. “I've kind of been playing it by ear, seeing what sounds good when I get up in the morning.” Truth be told, he was still kind of reeling from the impromptu visit from Jackson, who had promised to stay in town for at least a week. Today, he'd said he was going to be visiting with his family.

“So what sounds good today?”

“Haven't decided yet.”

“You want to hang out? With me?”

“What, like a date?” Stiles had meant it as a joke but the minute it was out of his mouth, he knew it had been the wrong thing to say.

“No, no no no,” Derek said softly, making it sound like it was just a small, harmless misunderstanding, no harm done. Stiles was eternally grateful. “Just. Hanging out.” Derek shrugged, like he had no idea what hanging out actually meant but he was willing to give it a try.

Then Stiles thought back to when they had been dating and he realized how rare it had been, for the two of them to hang out, alone. There had been times when they had sex, of course, or the times after sex, when they just spent an hour or two in bed, chatting softly, until they either fell asleep or one of them left. Or other times when they'd watched movies but no one else had gotten the hint so it always ended up being a pack thing instead of a date. Stiles and Derek had always looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and went along with it, so it hadn't been a big deal. And Stiles had still been in high school, still a minor, and the son of the Sheriff, so actual dates, to a movie or dinner or a hand-holding walk in the park, just the two of them, had always been out of the question. Looking back on it, that had always been Stiles's decision, to stay in instead of going out, and Derek had always just gone with it, not seeming to care one way or another.

Stiles wondered now if Derek had gotten the impression that Stiles was embarrassed of him or ashamed of having a boyfriend.

“Stiles? You still with me?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said softly. “Yeah, we can hang.”

Later, after he'd gotten dressed and had some coffee, they slipped into Derek's camaro and Derek started driving. The conversation was stunted and awkward. Derek kept asking questions about his father or how hanging with Lydia and Scott had been, awkwardly avoiding the topic of Jackson, checking up on his medications and side effects, but Stiles shut all those questions down rather quickly. He didn't want to talk about his depression considering it was all anyone seemed able to talk to him about lately. Well, besides Lydia and Scott. But they had skirted the topic with such little tact that it might as well have been talked about. He was sick of the topic and wanted Derek to talk about something else, but every time Stiles brought up the Pack and Peter, Derek closed down, answered in vague yes's or no's or, if he was really lucky, a noncommittal shrug.

They ended up falling into an uncomfortable silence.

Then Derek was pulling into a park, the kind where you had to pay to get in because it was protected and needed money for the upkeep. It was a nice day, big, fluffy clouds rolling past without a hint of gray in them and a steady breeze to cool the skin. Stiles jammed his hands into his pockets.

“My parents used to bring me here,” Derek said as they started down a path. A lot of it was uphill but there were plenty of rocks and footholds that acted as stairs. “Well, all of us kids. They used to make us pick out the scents in the air or tell them how many people were at the park with us. Laura and I used to make a game of it. She always won but I never minded.”

“Have you brought the Pack here?” Stiles asked.

Derek shook his head slightly.

Stiles wanted to ask why not, but it seemed like Derek didn't want to take the conversation down that route. Besides, asking why he hadn't brought the pack begged the question of why he'd brought Stiles. So Stiles stayed quiet.

They walked for probably a mile or two in complete silence. Stiles realized rather quickly that he needed new shoes, since his were so worn that even the small amount of moisture in the leaves and grass on the ground were soaking through, making his socks wet and him miserable. The sweat was drying as soon as it hit the air, giving his skin a sticky, unpleasant feel that only added to his discomfort.

To top it all off, while Derek was not only a werewolf but also in excellent shape, Stiles had just spent the last few years living off pizza, ramen, and mac and cheese, and enjoying the life of being in a committed relationship. Those factors led to a very out of shape Stiles.

“Do you want to turn back?” Derek asked when Stiles stopped and put his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“No,” Stiles rasped out with more heat than he'd intended and, ignoring the burning under his ribcage, he stood and resumed the hike.

“This is where it would get really difficult,” Derek said when they'd reached the top. “Smells mingle and dissipate a lot more when you're this high up. The breeze, the trees, the water...”

Stiles stopped listening. To his left was a river, running, jumping, and leaping off a cliff into a beautiful waterfall. And maybe if he wasn't already nostalgic and quickly approaching miserable, he would have been fine. But standing there on the cliff next to Derek just hit a nerve in the worst possible way and Stiles was careening his way to a nearby bench before he even noticed Derek's panicked questions.

Once he'd caught his breath some, his head between his knees, he realized Derek had quieted down and was now not sitting next to him but was across from him, a good ten feet away, on an uncomfortable looking rock, staring at him intently. Stiles got a sudden pang of guilt. This is who he had become, this fucked up kid who had panic attacks at the drop of a hat. And how annoying it must be to be in the company of someone like that all the time. No wonder Derek was sitting away from him, it was probably so he could claim ignorance of him if someone walked by.

“I'm okay,” he said after another minute or two.

Derek nodded, once. “Do you want to turn back?”

Stiles shook his head.

Derek's lips twitched. “Okay. Let's keep going.”

“Can we... stay away from the cliff?”

“Of course. I shouldn't have been stupid enough to bring you right to the edge anyway.”

“You're not stupid. It's not your fault.”

Derek said nothing as he started walking down the path.

No matter how much Stiles tried to initiate conversation after that, Derek wouldn't bite. The hike was quiet and tense, despite the beauty around them.

Stiles couldn't help but feel like he'd ruined a potentially wonderful experience. Here Derek was, sharing something with him that he'd never shared with anyone before, something deep and old and important to him, and not only did Stiles appear to not even give a shit, but he had to go and ruin it by creating a bad memory where so many other good ones had existed before. Like Stiles had tainted something beautiful for Derek.

When they finally wandered back to the car, Derek seemed tense and broody while Stiles felt sweaty and achy. He was tempted to ask for a drink but then decided that he didn't want to be the one to break the silence. He'd tried to initiate conversation and he was ready to dehydrate himself in a stubborn refusal to break the awkward silence.

Derek reached into the backseat and handed a water bottle to Stiles wordlessly.

After Stiles had downed half the bottle and they were driving back home, Derek broke the silence. “You hungry?”

Stiles shrugged. “I could eat.” Truthfully, he wanted to go home. His stomach was doing flips, not used to skipping Isaac's breakfasts. Then he'd had coffee and gone for a hike. But he knew he should eat and, if he didn't, someone was likely to admonish him later for it.

He fidgeted with the water bottle for a few minutes until he nearly dropped it, spilling a couple drops on the floor in his haste to catch it. He put the cap back on and stuck it into the cup holder, feeling his face flush. Being clumsy he was used to – Derek not scolding him or teasing him about it, he was not. “It wasn't the edge,” he said.

Derek glanced at him but Stiles kept his eyes straight ahead. “What?”

“The trigger. The attack. It wasn't the cliff.”

“Please don't lie to me,” Derek said so softly that Stiles flinched worse than if he'd yelled.

“It wasn't entirely that, then. The last time I went for a hike was with Clarissa. That was the day I'd decided to ask her to marry me.” Stiles glanced over just enough to see Derek's fingers tighten on the wheel. “I just... I don't know, I guess... I was just remembering. And _then_... then we were at the cliff. The proverbial last straw. But it wasn't... it wasn't your fault or anything.”

“I should have asked,” Derek said through gritted teeth.

“If it makes you feel any better, I probably wouldn't have told you.”

“And how would that make me feel better?” Derek asked slowly after a moment.

Stiles realized that he'd just told Derek that he would have essentially lied about something potentially damaging to his mental health. “I didn't mean...” he said, sinking down in his seat. Then he gave up on talking altogether.

Derek flicked the radio on.

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 Inside the diner, the hostess showed them to a booth all the way to the back. Stiles couldn't help but feel more and more trapped with each step. When he sat, he immediately opened the menu, large enough to hide his view of Derek. Or hide Derek's view of him. 

“You going to get your Master's?”

Stiles lowered the menu just enough to look at Derek. “What?”

“Your Master's. Forensic Psychology? Don't you need a Master's to do that professionally?”

“Oh. Yeah. I don't know.” Stiles resumed holding the menu in front of his face.

“So what are you going to do? What kind of job are you looking for?”

“I don't know.”

“I thought Lydia was helping you apply to jobs?”

“More like Lydia was applying to jobs with my resume and I sat there looking pretty. Which I'm very good at, by the way.”

“So you're not interested in getting a job at all?”

Stiles froze, realizing where the conversation had ended up. One of the most alarming symptoms of depression and suicide was a lack of interest in one's future. Derek had probably been happy to hear that Stiles was actually planning a future, applying to jobs and fixing up his resume, because there was no doubt in Stiles's mind that he was keeping tabs on him, checking in with Scott and Lydia as to what they'd been doing, even if he'd maintained radio silence with Stiles. But then Stiles had to destroy the illusion in one fell swoop by letting his mouth run off. Stiles sank in the booth.

“Stiles?”

And Stiles realized that Lydia had been helping him lie to the therapist by planning his future for him, with little to no help from Stiles, and thereby being both the best and worst friend in the process. And by lying to the therapist, he was lying to everyone around him, including Derek, which was the worst for so many reasons.

“Stiles,” Derek snapped, but not angrily. It was just to get his attention. “What do _you_ want?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you hang out with Scott but you let him choose the activity, which movie to watch, which game to play. You hang with Lydia but you either go shopping or you let her apply to jobs using your resume, which you obviously don't even want to participate in. Yesterday, Jackson literally dragged you out to eat. Today, we went hiking and you didn't seem to enjoy that very much but yet, you insisted on continuing. Because you thought that was what I wanted. Shit, even when Isaac cooks you breakfast, if he asks you first what you want, you don't give him a straight answer.”

“Is it a crime now to be laid back and easy going?” Stiles asked, though his face felt hot all the way to his ears.

Derek didn't answer and Stiles eventually lowered the menu to glance at him. He was staring out the window. Without glancing at him, Derek asked, “Are the meds helping _at all_?”

“A little,” Stiles said softly, feeling very small all of a sudden. Derek looked at him. “Kind of? I don't know. Not yet?”

Derek stared at him hard and, if Stiles didn't know Derek as well as he did, he'd say angrily. But it wasn't anger. It was sadness. “Where in that was a straight answer?”

Stiles sank further into his seat.

“Stiles, you can't even decide on how you feel. If it weren't for us feeding you, would you even acknowledge that you're hungry? If it weren't for your dad, Erica, and Isaac, would you even acknowledge that you're tired and need to sleep? Do you think about _you_ at all?”

“I'm trying!” Stiles said, sitting up. Derek was making it sound like it was easy, eating when he wasn't hungry, sleeping when only nightmares and panic attacks and another fucking day awaited. As if it was easy to keep on breathing when every second he felt like he was drowning.

“You're not trying!” Derek said. “You're making it _look_ like you're trying! You just keep doing what everyone wants, what everyone _expects_ , but you know what I think? I think you're doing just enough to get us to lower our guard, to get us to think you truly are getting better, so we'll give you more freedom. But you're not getting better and even if you can fool the others, you can't fool me.”

The worst part about the whole thing was that he was right. Derek was absolutely right and it pissed Stiles off that he saw right through him like that. And it made him so ashamed, too, that Derek saw right through him, like he'd caught him red handed, but this was so much worse than stealing a cookie.

So when the waitress came to get their order, Stiles leaned on his hand, facing the window, and mumbled something about the soup of the day, hiding his face with his fingers so she couldn't see the tears trickling down his cheeks. Derek ordered, too, a side of fries and mayonnaise.

“Hey,” Derek said gently when she walked away. “Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't...”

“I'm... trying...” Stiles said, hiccuping as he tried to rein in the tears. He didn't mean that he was trying to get better. He meant he was trying to try to get better, that wanting to _get_ better and wanting to _be_ better were two completely different things. But his voice was thick and his throat locked and he didn't think he could effectively verbalize any of that anyway.

“I know,” Derek said, but it wasn't because he knew or understood all that Stiles hadn't said but rather because he felt bad and wanted Stiles to stop crying. “Do you want to go?”

Stiles shook his head. He grabbed the napkin and wiped his face. “We haven't eaten.”

“We don't have to. Or we could get it to go.”

“I got soup.”

“I'm sure they have containers.”

“I want. To stay,” Stiles said slowly.

Derek regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.”

“Tell me about what's going on with the Pack,” Stiles said when he regained trust of his voice again.

“No,” Derek replied, utterly serious.

“Oh, come on. You just made me cry.”

“Okay, number one, I'm not even going to list all the ways that sentence was wrong. I'm just going to point out that I notice your bullshit and I'm calling you out on it. Don't try to guilt trip me because, trust me Stiles, I don't need your help.” Stiles flinched but Derek ignored him and went on. “Number two, I will gladly and enthusiastically fill you in on the goings-on of the Pack once you start showing signs of real, honest-to-god improvement.”

“So I'm being punished for my depression?”

“What did I just say about guilt-tripping? This isn't about punishing you, you idiot. Filling you in on Pack issues would not only stress you out more but would also give you yet another excuse to focus on something besides yourself. I've screwed up a lot of things in my life and I've let a lot of people down. I'm not going to screw this up. I'm not going to let you down. And if you want to hate me for it, that's fine. But if I hear you start needling the others for information... well, Stiles, I had brothers, sisters, cousins, and for the last few years, a pack of teenagers turned young adult. I can get pretty creative in my torment.”

Stiles jumped as the waitress set down the food but was ultimately grateful for its arrival. Usually, Stiles would have been intrigued and insistent on knowing what kind of torment Derek was skilled in but, at the moment, he was stuck on those seven words: I'm not going to let you down.

Derek had never been overly fond of the L word but those seven words were as close as Stiles figured he'd ever get again, and he was glad he'd chosen soup as the hot liquid soothed the tension and the lump that had crawled back into his throat.


	7. Chapter 7

Back at home, Stiles immediately hopped into the shower. Not only did he feel sticky and disgusting still from their hike but he was also craving the solitude, the ability to think without someone scrutinizing his every move. He still left the door open, though.

The water cascaded down his face and over his eyes and he felt himself drift into his own head, enjoying the heat and the comfort of the water. 

Was he trying to get better? Or was he putting on a front, to get everyone to back down so he could break away to finally kill himself successfully? Or was trying to try to get better only the first step?

Getting better from depression wasn't like getting better from a cold. It wasn't like he could take some sudafed or tylenol and crash on the couch amidst tissues and blankets for a few days and then, voila, healthy again. Being depressed meant asking others for medication when you needed it because no one trusted you enough to venture into the drug closet by yourself. And if you curled up on the couch for a few days, only one of two things would happen: someone was bound to walk in, look at you sadly, probably drill you on your emotions and even when they left, you'd be struck with this unfounded guilt and have no idea how to fix it or make it go away, so you'd continue sitting there watching TV but not really watching it because every moment was making you even more guilty, plunging you into a never ending spiral of self-hatred; or someone would walk in, pro-active, open all the curtains, tell you to get dressed, wash your face, smell the roses, find the silver lining, and all that other bullshit that made you want to punch them but you know they mean well so you keep your mouth shut and your hands clasped in your lap but still end up in a spiral of self loathing for hating them and their preppy attitude while all you wanted to do was wallow.

But it was a bit odd, to think that a cold is so mild and so normal and no one will question you crashing on the couch for a few days, but depression was so serious and painful and everyone questions you crashing on the couch, as if you should just be able to flick a switch and make yourself better.

It was like Derek wanted Stiles to joke, to flail, to push back, to just be who he'd been four years ago. But depression aside, Stiles had changed in the last four years. Even if he did start showing signs of improvement, would Derek notice? Or would he keep saying Stiles wasn't acting normal, because Derek's mental image of normal Stiles was actually different from what normal Stiles had become?

But then, apparently depression gives off a certain scent. Hopefully Derek will be able to smell the change if not see it.

Stiles turned the water knob so the water was a little hotter, just shy of scalding.

Then he smiled sadly, remembering. He'd had showers with Clarissa before, both the sexual themed and the intimate yet chaste themed. But standing there in the shower, the heat and the steam doing wonders for the tension in his back and neck, he was remembering a shower he'd had with Derek.

They'd gotten back from some fight with the hunters and an arrow had grazed Stiles in the arm, just enough that it bled like a head wound but not enough that he needed to go to the hospital. He'd started the shower alone but when Derek had climbed in, he'd smiled tiredly. “Derek, as much as I love naked you, and naked you in the shower definitely ratchets up the love level, I'm tired as hell, so if you're looking for sexytimes, I'm going to have to take a very reluctant rain-check.”

Derek had ignored him, instead sealing their lips together, Derek's hand under Stiles's jaw in a very loose choke-hold, his other arm wrapped around Stiles's waist, also loose but firm, secure.

Then Derek had broke away to investigate Stiles's arm, which was still leaking blood, though not as profusely as it had been.

“You know, cold water is better for this. Helps slow the bleeding,” Derek said.

“I don't know if I should be appalled that you're suggesting we turn the water to cold or touched that you actually know that fact considering you're a werewolf and you've never had to worry about how to slow bleeding.”

Derek turned Stiles by the shoulders so Stiles's back was to Derek. “We've had humans in our Pack before, stupid. Besides, you're in the Pack now. I've done my research on first aid.” Then Derek's arms were around Stiles's waist, hands drifting south.

“Derek...” Stiles said warningly.

Derek nipped at Stiles's ear. “Shh. I know you well enough by now to know that you're not going to come down from the adrenalin rush for a while. This'll help and you know it.”

When Derek's hands had wrapped around his length, Stiles had sighed, leaning his head back to rest on Derek's shoulder. “Okay. You talked me into it. But when my legs give out, you better catch me.”

Stiles had felt a huff of air against his ear. “Always.”

To this day, it was the warmest, most intimate moment he could remember.

Most of the time, when he wandered down memory lane and happened upon that moment in the shower, it was wonderful fodder for alone sexytimes. But sometimes, it just made his heart ache.

He felt himself grinding his teeth, remembering the intimacy between him and Derek and hating himself for wanting it still, despite everything.

For the first time in weeks, when he got out of the shower, he missed the mirror. It startled him, actually missing his own reflection. But then, it could be a fluke, so he filed away that piece of information and decided that if he felt that way another two times, he'd ask Isaac to put it back. But even once was progress, right?

He wondered if Derek would agree.

“It's not easy, you know,” he said when he walked into his room and Derek was lounging in his computer chair.

Derek raised his eyebrows at him in a request to go on.

“Depression. Trying. Getting up in the morning. It's not easy.”

“I know.”

“You say you know. And I think on some level you _did_ know, at one point. But it's like parents saying they know what being a teenager is like: it's different for everyone and it's been decades since they experienced it first hand so the memory is a bit diluted. I think it's been a while since you tried to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge so maybe you've forgotten exactly how difficult it was to get out of bed the next morning.” Stiles struggled to keep his breathing even and focused on not looking at Derek, not wanting to see how his words were effecting him. It seemed suddenly important for Stiles to get this out, for Derek to understand. He didn't want to screw it up with a panic attack or by saying the wrong thing. “You act like I'm not trying but... no one drags me out of bed in the morning. I do that myself. You think I _want_ to get up? Because I don't. I'd love to lay in bed all day long. And it doesn't matter who I do it for or why I do it because, at the end of it, I still did it. And that's got to count for something, you know?”

“It does,” Derek said softly.

Stiles shook his head. “That was rhetorical.” Then he started to pace. “And you ask me what I want but that's what I want. I want to stay in bed all day and not feel guilty about it. I want to skip breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, or all three, because sometimes, I feel so numb that... I welcome the hunger pains. They make me know I'm alive. I still want to jump off Widow's Peak sometimes. But that's not right, is it? These wants. They're wrong. _What I want is wrong_. So excuse me for feeling self-conscious and unsure about what I want but... I feel like I keep upsetting the people around me. And if I made the wrong decision about what I want for breakfast, something so stupid and simple and menial... it would just crush me.” Stiles was shaking but he was proud of himself for keeping his voice even. “So don't... don't make me into the bad guy and tell me I'm not trying. Because I am. I _am_ trying.”

“I know,” Derek said. Stiles finally allowed himself to look at him and he looked tense, gripping the arms of the chair so hard, Stiles thought he might break them off. His feet were flat on the ground, his legs solid as if he were a second away from standing. Stiles wondered how much self-control it was taking him not to launch out of the chair at that moment. “Stiles, you're not the bad guy. I know you're trying.”

Stiles made a weak hand gesture, an abandoned request, but Derek caught it and, in a blink, Derek was pressed against him, familiar muscles under Stiles's chin, hands splayed across his back, the grip around him tight and secure but not lung-crushing.

“I'm sorry I made you feel like that,” Derek said against his ear. “I know you're trying and I know it's hard. And I know I don't seem like it, but I'm proud of you.”

Stiles chuckled, disbelieving.

Derek's grip tightened around him. “I am,” he said, so softly into Stiles's ear that Stiles shivered.

He felt himself melt into the hug, taking comfort and strength from Derek as he did so. It reminded him of the shower.

“Why did we really break up?” he asked softly.

He felt Derek stiffen but he didn't move away.

“Was it because you were trying to protect me?” Stiles continued. “Did you fall out of love? Did I not cherish you enough?”

Derek pulled back abruptly so he could look Stiles in the eyes.

Stiles didn't give him a chance to say anything, though. “Or did we actually have problems... unfixable problems...?”

“I broke up with you because I'm an idiot, Stiles.”

“What's that mean?”

“It means I didn't stop loving you, I've never stopped loving you. Yeah, we had problems but every relationship does, they were never deal breakers. And you treated me fine, better than...”

“Better than Kate? Because that's not -”

“Better than anyone has ever treated me before.” Derek cupped Stiles's face in his palm. “Stiles...”

But Stiles didn't let him finish. He felt so wrung out and raw and Derek was being so gentle and intimate, his lips just found their own way to Derek's, as if that was home and that was where they belonged.

It lasted all of four seconds.

Then Derek wrenched himself away and over to the desk, bending over it with his hands flat on the top and Stiles could only see half of Derek's face.

“Derek?” he said.

Derek didn't move.

“Derek...” So many things went through Stiles's head. Should he apologize? He didn't really feel sorry for what he'd done, though, unless he unknowingly hurt Derek. Should he rub his back? But that seemed awkward and Derek was tense in a way that made Stiles uneasy. Should he reassure him? “Derek... you asked me what I want. I want this. I want you.”

And then a sound came from Derek, a sound Stiles had never heard from him before – a sob. Derek's shoulders started to shake and clench and he held up a hand towards Stiles. It was followed by more choked off sobs and Stiles leaned over a little to catch a glimpse of Derek's face – it was wet.

Stiles backed up into the door. He broke Derek. What did he do? He'd kissed Derek. Did Derek not want to be kissed? He said he loved him still but did he mean only platonically? Derek didn't want to kiss. Stiles had broken Derek, big Alpha werewolf Derek, and Stiles had reduced him to tears and sobbing.

And if Derek didn't want to kiss now, had he wanted to kiss then, a few days ago? Had he wanted to have sex? Had he wanted that or had Stiles pushed and pushed until he gave in? Had he wanted that? Had it been completely consensual or had Derek just -

Stiles ran out the door.

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He didn't know if he was being followed but he announced his intentions anyway. “I'm going to Scott's.” Because he literally couldn't think of anywhere else to go but he didn't want a pack member jumping into the car with him right now. He needed to drive, alone, to Scott's. He needed to see Scott. He needed his best friend.

When Melissa answered the door, he had second thoughts. “Is uh is is is Scott home?” he asked, hearing himself stutter, hearing himself sound like a thirteen year old and completely unable to stop himself.

“Um, we uh...” Melissa said but instead of sounding like a nervous teenager, she sounded like someone who was trying to gently let you down. Like, 'I'm going to prom with someone else already' or 'We've already filled that position, sorry.' “We just sat down for dinner, Stiles.”

“Oh, okay, yeah, that's okay, it's evening, it's dinner time, that makes sense,” Stiles rambled and he knew he should have been embarrassed but he wasn't. He was thinking about where to go next because Lydia was at the Museum all day and he didn't feel comfortable going to anyone in the pack and he really didn't want to think about how he was alone in a really unstable state of mind. “I uh yeah, I should have, um, should have thought of that, should have called first. I'll uh, I'll call him later...” Stiles turned back and headed to his car. Melissa was talking still but he couldn't hear her.

Then a hand grabbed his shoulder. “Stiles? What's wrong?”

But Stiles's mind hooked itself onto one detail and refused to let go. “You're having dinner, with your mom, that's important, mom's are important, it's okay, I'm okay, we'll talk later.”

“Stiles!” Scott was clutching his shoulders in an iron grip, or rather a werewolf's grip. Stiles wouldn't have been surprised if claws were digging into his skin but he couldn't feel anything. He felt numb. “What happened?” 

Stiles put his hands over Scott's, needing to feel the contact, the support.

“Scott?” Melissa called from the porch.

“Go back inside, Mom!” Scott yelled at her.

Then Stiles's anxiety kicked into overdrive and he started looking back and forth from Scott to Melissa and back again. “No, no, Scott, that's your mom, I don't want... I'm sorry, Ms. McCall, I didn't mean... Scott, don't talk to her like that... I'm sorry... It's okay, I'm okay, you should go back inside...”

Then Melissa was walking towards them, asking if Stiles was okay, and Stiles started having images of Melissa calling his dad and asking if everything was all right, his dad rushing over, Stiles being pressured and bullied into finally telling his dad, and therefore Melissa, about the suicide attempt, about the depression, and then Stiles was in full on panic attack mode, gulping breaths and feeling his skin start to heat up.

“Scott, no, please, no, my dad, she'll call, I can't, please don't, I can't, Scott, Scott...”

And then Allison came out of the house.

Stiles sank to the ground upon seeing her, realizing that not only had he interrupted Scott's dinner with his mom but he'd also interrupted their dinner with Allison and was that important, had they been having an important dinner conversation, should Stiles have known, was Stiles a bad friend for not knowing?

Scott waved Allison over and she crouched down next to him. Then Scott got up, saying something about his mom, and ushered her into the house and shut the door, leaving Allison and Stiles alone.

Usually in the midst of a panic attack, after it's gotten blown up and he was riding out the worst parts of it, he liked to stay quiet, wanted everyone around him to shut up and stay quiet with him. But this time, it seemed he couldn't shut up. “I'm sorry, I screw everything up, I didn't know with the dinner, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have, I'm such an asshole, I'm sorry...”

“What have you screwed up, Stiles?” she asked gently.

“Everything, I screw everything up, I screwed up your dinner, I screwed up Derek, I screwed up -” and he was about to say Clarissa but then the tears were streaming down his face and he wanted to hide from Allison but he couldn't move so he covered his face with his hands.

“You don't screw everything up,” she said. “Listen. Hey, listen to me.” She pulled his hands away from his face and held them in the space between them, inches above the concrete. “Remember back when Scott was bitten? You stuck by him. You helped him find his balance, to stay in control.”

“You were... his anchor,” Stiles argued, still gulping air.

She shook her head. “He wouldn't have figured that out without you. Trust me, he and I have talked about this. You saved his life.” Stiles felt his panic start to dissipate, having to focus on her words, her face, feeling her fingers against him, all of it acting as a kind of lifeline back to calmness. “And you were there for Lydia when Jackson left. And I've always admired you. For... I don't know,” she said, shrugging self-consciously. “Because we both lost our moms. I felt like we were in our own special club. Surviving Without Moms Club.” She shrugged again. “Besides that, you went to college. You graduated, in four years, with really good grades. Don't let anyone tell you that's easy, because it's not. You've accomplished a lot, Stiles. You're not a screw-up.”

She'd somehow managed to calm him down and he stared into her eyes, suddenly grateful that Scott had fallen in love with someone so wonderful. He'd always known she was wonderful. Scott could be a puppy sometimes, in both a cute way and a chasing-his-own-tail kind of way, but he had a good eye for people. Stiles had just always thought they'd end up falling out, moving on. He was glad they hadn't.

“So what's going on, what happened?” Scott asked when he came back out.

Stiles didn't know where to start so he shook his head. He was feeling exhausted suddenly, from the day, from the drive, from the multiple panic attacks, but he was here now and he owed it to them to give them an explanation.

“You want to go inside?” Scott asked.

Stiles looked back at the house and shook his head. Melissa was in there. The idea of him discussing anything, or everything, with Scott and Allison, and her within hearing distance, scared the shit out of him. She was a parent. Parents had a code. If something serious is going on with your kid, all promises and all bets are off – that parent has a right to know. He'd be surprised if she hadn't already called the Sheriff.

Then Stiles looked at the car. “A ride,” he suggested. “Can we go for a ride?”

Scott didn't hesitate to pull the keys out of Stiles's pocket but when he suggested Stiles ride shotgun, Stiles jumped in the backseat and locked the doors. He wanted Allison to ride shotgun while Scott drove. Having the backseat to himself gave him a strange sense of privacy and space, even though Allison ended up turning all the way around in her seat and Scott kept looking at him in the mirror.

After a few miles of silence, which Stiles was grateful for considering how difficult it was for Scott to stay silent when someone he knew was hurting, he took a deep breath, not sure of how to start. “Derek and I had sex,” he said. Then he mentally kicked himself. It was like depression had completely robbed him of tact. He couldn't ease his way into telling people big news anymore, he had to drop it on them like a bombshell.

“Okay?” Scott said. Stiles gave him kudos for just rolling with it like that.

“When?” Allison asked.

“A few days ago. Almost a week ago,” Stiles said.

“Dude, you guys are back together?” Scott asked. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Scott, shut up,” Allison said. Then she turned back to Stiles. “Was it break up sex or makeup sex or closure sex?”

“What does it matter?” Scott asked. Allison waved at him to shut up.

“Heat of the moment sex,” Stiles said.

“Heat of the moment sex?” she echoed. Then something seemed to dawn on her. “Was it like... desperation sex? Like grief sex?”

“Yeah, I think so... I don't know. I feel like...” Stiles fidgeted, fighting the lump that threatened to form in his throat. “I feel like I forced him.”

“Dude, you wouldn't be able to force an Alpha to do anything he doesn't want to do,” Scott said.

“No, not physically. Like. Emotionally.” He hid his face in his hands again.

“I think Scott's right, though,” Allison said. “I still don't think you could have forced him if some part of him didn't want it, too.”

“I suck,” Stiles said into his hands. “We had such a horrible day but it could have been good. He took me hiking and it was really pretty but I fucked it up because it was the fucking woods and just... and then he took me to a diner but then I fucked that up too because he's an asshole but I'm more of an asshole and I fuck everything up just by being. And I don't even deserve him, he deserves someone better, you all deserve better, you don't deserve to have to deal with a fucking basket case like me. I'm such a fucked up friend.”

“Stop it,” Allison scolded. “We talked about this.”

“But it's true!” he yelled. “We didn't keep in touch, I certainly didn't try to keep in touch and you guys didn't try to keep in touch, and I just fucking left, I left everyone including my dad, and I put everyone in danger by being with Clarissa, and now that I'm back, everyone has to take care of me and I'm not even grateful for it because I'm such an asshole, I'm still so fucking selfish, and I all but raped Derek and -” Stiles felt himself working up again but he just kept talking because he didn't want them to butt in or tell him he was wrong. He didn't want them to know how badly he still wanted to go to Widow's Peak. He didn't want them to lie to him and tell him he wasn't a screw up because he knew better. He didn't want them to know the meds weren't working or that he didn't even care that they weren't working, that he was only taking them for everyone else. He just wanted them to acknowledge how much of an asshole he was, how selfish and stupid he was, but he knew if they did that, he'd feel just as bad as if they told him he wasn't a screw up. He officially hated his brain.

The car skidded to a stop as Scott slammed on the brakes. Looking up, Stiles saw Derek at the hood of the car.

Scott turned around. “You are not a fuck up, you got that? You are the least selfish person I know.”

Stiles shook his head, trying to get Scott to shut up.

“You're not! God why are you being so stupid right now, Stiles? You're my best friend. My brother. You're not a fuck up. You have always been there for me, for everyone and anyone who has ever needed you. Without you, your dad would have fallen apart years ago. I would have fallen apart years ago. I doubt the Pack would have even survived without you. We make mistakes and shit happens but you're not a fuck up because of it.”

Derek came around the side of the car but Scott hit the auto lock button. It wouldn't do much to keep him out of the car if he really wanted to get in but the click of the locks was definitely a message to Derek to back off.

“So we didn't keep in touch, so what? We're still friends. You're still Pack. That's never changed.” Scott put the car in gear again and they started moving, away from Derek until he jumped in front of the car again. “Derek, go away, he doesn't want to talk to you.”

Even through the windshield, Stiles could see Derek's eyes bleed red.

“Stop,” Stiles muttered. “I should... I should get out. Talk to him.”

Allison was looking back and forth between Stiles and Derek, quiet but observant.

“Stiles,” Scott said over his shoulder, “you're unstable right now. I don't think hanging out with Derek is the best idea.” 

“News flash, Scott: I've been unstable for weeks now.”

Allison turned to stare at Stiles and Scott fell silent, throwing the car back into park. Stiles wondered if this was the first time he'd admitted it out loud.

“It's fine,” Stiles said. “Whatever happens, I deserve it.”

“That's not true,” Allison said. She reached back and held his hand on his lap. “Go ahead and get out but we're going to stay. If you start to get uncomfortable, just get back in the car and we'll drive you home.”

Stiles was starting to feel like a sixteen year old going out on his first date. “Guys, it's fine. Just go home. He and I probably need to talk anyway. Alone.” He opened the door and slid out.

Scott rolled down his window. “Call me when you get home. I'll have one of the others bring the car over later or something but you make sure you call me when you get home, okay? Not a text, a call. Okay? And if you want to hang or talk or something, I'll come over. I'll bring beer and everything.”

Stiles chuckled and nodded. “Stop motherhenning me. I'll call you when I get home. And thank you.”

Stiles walked over to Derek and he was sure Allison and Scott were giving Derek dirty looks, even saying something bad enough to make Derek glance at them with red eyes one more time as they drove away, but Stiles didn't take his eyes off Derek. He wasn't sure what was about to happen but he felt drained and part of him was grateful for that. Sometimes being exhausted lent a kind of cushion to emotions and big conversations.

“I'm sorry I took off... like that,” Stiles said.

“I'm sorry I freaked out,” Derek said.

“What? No, you had every reason to freak out, it was totally acceptable on your part -”

“You didn't rape me,” Derek said softly.

Stiles took a shuddering breath. “But you -”

“I wanted it, Stiles. Truth is, I wanted it a little too much. If anything, I was the one who took advantage. You're grieving still. You were upset. And I took advantage.”

Stiles felt his thoughts skitter to a halt. “What? No. No, I wanted -”

“You don't know what you want when you're grieving. You'll do anything to make the pain go away. Trust me, I know.”

Stiles shook his head. “Then why... why did you start crying?”

Derek looked away, seemingly at a loss for words. “You were upset today. I made you cry. And everything else...” He sighed, closing his eyes. “I don't know, I guess it just got to me.”

“What did? What do you mean, everything else?”

“You, being depressed. You protecting the Pack. You coming back. I'm not telling you this to make you feel bad, Stiles, I'm really not, but this... all of it... it's hard. It is so frustrating being on the outside looking in. I don't know how to help you. Anytime I try, I seem to make things worse. You're not like a car I can fix or a beta I can just yell into submission. I don't know how to fix you and that kills me. I hate seeing you like this.”

“I'm sorry,” Stiles said miserably. “I can't help it.”

“I know,” Derek said, crooning almost, as he stepped closer. Stiles wasn't sure if he wanted Derek to touch him or if he was terrified of it and he felt frozen to the spot. “I'm not saying it is, and I don't want you to feel guilty. It's not your fault how you feel. I just needed you to know... what's going on in my head. So you know why I react the way I do to things.” Derek took another step closer and lightly rested his hands on Stiles's upper arms, but Stiles didn't move into the touch the way he had earlier. “You're not a screw up.”

“Yes I am,” he said stubbornly.

“If it wasn't for you, I'd probably be dead.”

Stiles glared at him.

“If not me, definitely some of the Pack. Stiles, you killed Clarissa. But in doing so, you saved my life. Our lives.”

And yeah. That was exactly what Stiles had done. But no one in the Pack had really said it, certainly not like that. Not like they were grateful or thankful to Stiles for it.

But the moment was short-lived as he felt a sudden swelling of emotion. “But then it's like I loved you more than I loved her.” Stiles knew Derek wasn't the person he should be saying this to, that he should have gone to his dad or Scott with this breakdown but then he was all tears and he couldn't take the words back and no hug from his dad or Scott could ever feel the way Derek's hugs felt. Secure. Safe. Forgiving.

Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek and held on tight.

Derek squeezed him to his chest and Stiles felt his chest rumble as he spoke. “You can't measure that, Stiles. You loved her. You were in love with her. And it doesn't matter who you loved more because she wasn't just threatening me, she was threatening the whole Pack.”

“No she wasn't,” Stiles said softly, sniffling into Derek's shirt. He leaned back, wanting, in a masochistic way, to look Derek in the eyes for this. “She only wanted you. Only you.”

Derek stared at him calmly, without a hint of surprise in his eyes. “So what – if you loved her more than me, you would have called the Pack and told them to stand down? To step aside and watch me die? Even if that were a viable option, do you think Scott would have let you marry someone like that, someone who could kill because of a decade old grudge? Someone who didn't care what that person had meant to you?”

And for the first time, hearing it in Derek's voice, it all struck home – that yes, he'd made the right decision. He reached out and clutched at Derek's shirt, feeling himself unravel, but it was a good unraveling. Cleansing almost.

“Stiles, I want you to listen to me. You listening?” Stiles nodded, his head against Derek's chest as he cried. “I didn't want to kiss you today because you're still grieving. Because I think a part of you wants to pretend that you didn't love her and, if you kiss me, if you can move on so quickly after her death, then you'll be able to convince yourself of that. But you did love her, Stiles. You loved her the way you love everyone – completely and recklessly. I have no doubt you would have pulled down the moon for that girl if you could, if she had wanted you to. She was lucky to have you. But it's okay, Stiles. It's okay that you loved her. She'll always hold a place in your heart. And that's okay. It's okay to grieve for her.”

Derek caught him as his legs gave out. He didn't know he needed to hear those words until they'd been spoken. And he was glad he hadn't gone to his dad or Scott with this. The words meant so much more coming from Derek.


	8. Chapter 8

“Hello, Mr. Stilinski. Please, have a seat.”

He'd been here before. Not this particular office or with this particular doctor, but here in this kind of setting. And it wasn't just because of what he'd studied in college, which had him, if not literally then definitely figuratively, sitting in the chair Dr. Caldwell was about to sit in. No, he'd been on this side of the desk before, too. Back after his mother died, then again in high school after Matt died, and in college when they'd been forced to get therapy, to 'see what it was like on the other side of the metaphorical couch' which Stiles had quietly laughed at but gone along with anyway.

There was something different about it this time, though. A kind of shame that burned him to the core. When he'd lost his mom, everyone had told him, in their own way, that it was okay to be sad and it was okay to be mad and it was definitely okay to talk to the shrink about anything he was feeling. And he had, he'd told anything and everything to his shrink, who told Stiles that shrinks preferred to be called by their names rather than 'shrink' or 'therapist' or any of those other terms. The shrink, who Stiles took to calling Jim, turned out to be a really cool guy. Whenever Stiles showed up to an appointment, he would go on about how Stiles was his favorite patient. Stiles knew he was probably just being charismatic, he probably said that to all the patients, but Stiles felt like he truly meant it anyway. When he laughed at one of Stiles's jokes, it had never seemed forced the way they had when he told them to his father.

Now, though, he felt like he didn't deserve to be depressed. Or that he didn't deserve help for being depressed. Of course, his attitude changed on a daily basis – some days, he could accept that he'd done the right thing in killing Clarissa and he could accept what Derek had said about grieving. Other days, it was a pressing weight on his shoulders, a kind of tugging on the backs of his eyes.

Part of him felt like he was wasting the doctor's time. Stiles knew all the questions and therefore all the answers. He didn't deserve or even need help.

But part of him knew that it mattered having someone else ask the questions and it made a difference having to verbalize the answers. That even if he didn't deserve help, his friends deserved him trying.

“So, if you don't mind my asking, how do you pronounce your first name?” Dr. Caldwell asked. He was around the Sheriff's age, a little more jovial and with more silver streaks cutting through his naturally dark hair.

“Stiles,” he said.

The doctor paused, glancing from the paper to Stiles and back again.

Stiles juggled his two options for a moment: He could continue staring at the doctor coldly and assert himself and his first impression as a stubborn, resistant patient who wouldn't even explain his first name, or he could explain and show his charismatic side, a show of good faith, that he's trying, that he wants the doctor to understand even something so simple as his name.

He really _wanted_ to go with option number one.

“No one uses my first name,” he said. “I just go by Stiles.”

Dr. Caldwell's lips turned down thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

And that rubbed Stiles the wrong way. A therapist saying something was interesting was completely counter productive – how did it help the therapist at all? It was only to throw the patient off, to make them ask, 'what's interesting?' to which the doctor would say, 'oh nothing,' but they'd have a little smile to their lips, not because something was actually interesting but because now they feel like they have the upper hand because the patient was going to be wondering for the rest of the session exactly what was interesting. And therapy was not about the patient or the therapist getting the upper hand.

“I would appreciate it if you never use that word again,” Stiles said in a deadly calm voice, making sure he maintained eye contact the entire time. Stiles liked to think he had the eye contact part of intimidation down pat, not just because of his experiences on either side of the therapy couch but also because of his time with werewolves.

“What word?” the doctor asked, his eyes dancing.

Stiles said nothing.

The doctor's eyes widened minutely before he nodded and the amusement left his eyes. “Very well,” he said, finally settling down into his seat. “So. What are your plans for today?”

Which threw Stiles off. Usually they started with 'What brings you here today?' or 'Have you ever seen a counselor/therapist before?' And what exactly were his plans for the day? Derek was waiting in the camaro outside, even though it was going to take an hour and it was a blistering hot day. He hadn't really thought about it. And wasn't that a bad sign? No plans for the future kind of thing?

This wasn't starting off very well.

Stiles shrugged. “I'm just going with the flow. See where the wind takes me.”

The doctor smiled kindly. He wasn't buying Stiles's bullshit but he wasn't calling him on it either. That was a start. “I see you've been on Citalopram for the couple of weeks now. Any side effects?”

Stiles shrugged again. “Not that I've noticed.”

“No nausea or dry mouth?” Stiles shook his head. “Drowsiness? Sexual disturbances?” He shook his head again. “Insomnia or trouble sleeping?”

Stiles blinked. “I've been having nightmares but I'm not sure it's a side effect to the medication.”

“Are you prone to nightmares?”

“Sometimes, when I'm stressed.”

“Have you been stressed?”

“Um. Yeah. I'm here, aren't I?”

“You know depression and stress aren't synonymous, right?”

Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He'd done an essay junior year on the link between depression and stress. “I know that they're not always synonymous, yes. In this particular instance, they are both feeding on and feeding into the other.”

“What are you stressed about?”

Stiles took a deep breath. _This is it._ “Graduating college. Coming back home. Seeing my ex again. Breaking up with my girlfriend.”

“Ah,” Dr. Caldwell said, leaning back in his chair and nodding. Stiles internally groaned. Therapists loved to latch onto breakups. In this case, it wasn't just a break up, though, and Stiles knew he had to tread carefully. If he ever mentioned anything in their sessions and it later came up that she had been murdered, the police could get a warrant to look at his records. “What happened there?” the doctor asked.

“She was still hooked on this guy from years ago. Couldn't let it go. I tried to convince her to put it behind her. She wouldn't. So I ended it.”

“How long were you two together?”

“Two years.”

“That had to be difficult.”

“Yep.”

“Have you talked to her since?”

“Nope.”

“Has she tried contacting you? Or you her?”

Ha. “Nope.” The doctor was quiet. Stiles ran his fingers through his hair before continuing. “It's over between us. And it hurts. It sucks. And yeah, it's a big part of why I'm depressed, but it's by no means the _only_ reason. But she's gone. Out of my life. I need to move on.”

“And have you? Moved on?”

Stiles thought of Derek. “Kind of?”

“Kind of how?”

“I'm rekindling an old flame?”

“And how's that working out?”

“Complicated?” Stiles realized every statement out of his mouth sounded like a question. He sighed. “We dated when I was in high school and... we'd been in this group, this clique, and um... when he broke up with me, it was like the whole clique had broken up with me too? Like... no one called or came over. And I couldn't talk to my dad about it because my boyfriend had been older than me. Like... _older._ And my dad, he's the Sheriff. He would not have been happy.”

“So you kept him a secret from your dad?”

Stiles nodded. “Trust me, that's a whole other layer of crap. Anyway. I couldn't talk to my best friend about it because he was still in the group, you know? Couldn't really complain to him about them if he was only going to defend them. So I ended up feeling kind of alone? Abandoned, kind of? I think that was kind of the start to a lot of my depression.”

“You know you just said 'kind of' three times, right?”

“I did?”

The doctor smiled at him, again not unkindly. “So now you're kind of back with the guy who started your depression?”

“Well, you make him sound like a bad guy. He's not. I think part of the reason he broke up with me was the age difference. He wanted me to have a chance to screw up, experiment, et cetera.”

“So you forgive him?”

That brought Stiles up short. Therapists were always trying to make a foggy picture look black and white but their questions were always good in that. Had he forgiven Derek? “I'm working on it.”

“Have you since told your father about the relationship?”

“Yeah. I mean, I told him we dated in high school but not that we're... thinking about getting together again.” What exactly were people who weren't yet together but it was pretty much inevitable? Future boyfriend just had too much of a teenage girl ring to it.

“How is your relationship with your dad?”

“Um. Historically? Good. Close. Since my mom died, it's just been us two.”

“Why do you specify 'historically'?”

“Well. It's been strained lately. We kind of lost touch when I was in college. Then when I came back, I found out my ex and him were working together. It was quite shocking walking into the kitchen and seeing the two of them drinking coffee together, chatting about work.”

“That sounds rather jarring.”

Stiles reached over and picked up the Rubik's cube from Caldwell's desk but said nothing.

“Did you confront either of them?” the doctor asked. “Tell them how it made you feel?”

Stiles made a face. “And say what? 'You guys are hurting my feelings, please stop'?”

“That's an option. Or maybe ask your father to keep work at work and home at home?”

Stiles scowled but then he hesitated. Derek had an apartment. Derek was the Alpha. Why _had_ they been in the Stilinski household instead of Derek's place? Unless they wanted him to see.

Still, Stiles felt the need to defend them, but he filed that thought away for later. “They fight crime. It's something I've always loved and respected about my dad, how he never gives up, just keeps going until he catches the bad guy. I don't want him to stop bringing his work home.”

“Does he always? Catch the bad guy, that is?”

Stiles had a strange, fleeting though of Gerard. “No.”

“You said they fight crime. Almost like your dad is a superhero. But superheroes always catch the bad guy.”

“My dad's not a superhero.” What was he, twelve?

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Really? You're using that question on me? I feel fine about it, my dad's only human.”

“Humans make mistakes.”

Stiles stopped thinking, stopped moving, the Rubik's cube frozen in his hands.

“Your father makes mistakes,” the doctor clarified, as if he hadn't seen where that was going. “The only way we learn from our mistakes is when those mistakes are pointed out to us. It was wrong of your father to break the news to you like that.”

“He didn't know.” Which wasn't entirely true, if Stiles was honest. The way his father had avoided his eyes those first few days made it clear that the Sheriff could sense the tension in the air, that he was at least mildly ashamed of something.

“And it was wrong of your ex to not tell him. Stiles, sometimes when we fall into depression, it seems like everything hurts. The light turning red when we're late to work or an appointment. Finding crusted birdshit on your windshield after a long day indoors. Everything feels like it's an affront. We know we're being overdramatic, because everyone tells us we are. So when something legitimately hurts us, we keep it inside because we're afraid of being melodramatic. But you're not. In this case, you're not being melodramatic.”

Stiles knew he had a point because every word was hitting him like a punch in the gut. So, of course, he had to lighten the mood. “But the other day when my book fell and the bookholder fell out, it was melodramatic of me to have a panic attack, right?”

Instead of smiling, the doctor leaned on his hands thoughtfully, elbows propped on the desk. “Not at all. I don't really believe in melodrama. I believe that when we 'overreact' to something, it's a sign of a deeper problem. Have you been having frequent panic attacks?”

What constitutes 'frequent'? “Um. Kind of. It's not anything I can't handle, though.”

The doctor grabbed a pen and his script pad anyway and started writing. “I'd like you to increase your dosage by Monday if you're still having the panic attacks. If the medication was working the way it's supposed to, you shouldn't be having very many at all.” He ripped off the script and handed it to Stiles. “Now. Let's talk about your mother.”

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It seemed that, with every step out of the therapist's office, his anger level rose. He didn't see the pictures on the walls of the hallway as he passed them or the plants that needed watering. He just kept thinking of Derek and his father standing there in the kitchen, sipping their coffees and chatting away.

He really wanted to make excuses for them. Maybe they hadn't heard him coming. Maybe his dad thought he knew. Maybe there was something really urgent they had needed to talk about. Maybe his dad had been planning on making Stiles breakfast and didn't want to leave the house, so he had Derek come over. 

But he'd always made excuses for people. If his dad came home from work and yelled at Stiles about his dirty room, Stiles just shrugged it off that his dad must have had a bad day. Or if Scott canceled their plans last minute, Stiles just assumed he and Allison were having more drama and, considering it was Stiles's fault that Scott had been bitten in the first place, he had a lot of making up to do for Scott anyway. Or if Derek canceled on him while they were dating, well, Stiles could understand being an Alpha was difficult and a full time job.

But maybe Caldwell was right. This was a case of Derek and his father needing to get called out on it.

Derek smiled bright when he saw Stiles approaching and that pissed Stiles off more, somehow. How dare he smile when Stiles was so pissed.

Stiles stopped next to the car trying to will himself to stop shaking. After a few minutes, Derek got out.

“Why?” Stiles blurted out.

Derek stared at him, a deer in headlights. “Why what?”

“Why did you and my dad have to break it to me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Oh come on!” Stiles exploded. “You were listening in, you probably heard my fucking heartbeat, don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about!”

“I don't, Stiles. I had the radio on. To give you privacy.”

Stiles felt a sliver of warmth slide through his anger but then he pushed it away. “Oh, _now_ you think about privacy.” He had no idea what he meant by that, but he was angry. “When you and my dad were drinking coffee in our kitchen and that's when I realized that my dad knew about werewolves!” Stiles didn't even look to see if anyone else was in the parking lot.

“What do you mean, _'now_ I care about your privacy'? Need I remind you of the events of the past few weeks?” Now Derek was getting angry.

Stiles was kind of glad. He wanted to be the only angry one, sure, but he kind of enjoyed pushing Derek and Derek pushing back instead of just taking it. “Need I remind you that that image, of you and my dad, was the last fucking straw!?”

And that jolted Stiles because that wasn't what he'd intended to say. He'd just wanted to rant a little until Derek apologized and maybe he'd mope for a few hours but Derek would be cute and make it up to him. Or something.

But then he realized, once the words were out of his mouth, that he blamed Derek, and his dad, for the whole thing, the depression, the suicide attempt, all of it. Which wasn't fair and he immediately regretted his words.

Instead of going silent and stoic, as Stiles had assumed would be Derek's reaction, he got louder. “Need I remind you that no one forced you to drive up to that cliff? No one forced you to kill Clarissa! No one forced you to go to a college three thousand fucking miles away! No one forced you to keep werewolves a secret from your dad! And need I fucking remind you that you didn't fight it!” Stiles was stunned, frozen in place as Derek's ears got beat red and his voice got thick with emotion. “When I broke up with you, you didn't even argue. You just turned away and walked out.”

They stood there, staring at each other, Derek huffing and looking like he was fighting tears, Stiles both cold and numb all over. Then Stiles opened the passenger door and got in.

Stiles could see Derek standing outside in his peripheral vision, not moving. After a few minutes passed, he finally climbed into the driver's seat.

“Stiles,” Derek said softly.

“Don't,” Stiles responded just as softly. “Just don't.”

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He wasn't even mad, just hurt. Because Derek was right.

He focused on not thinking the entire drive home. His emotions hadn't quite decided which route they were going to take him in, but he couldn't see any route that he'd enjoy going down while sitting next to Derek.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a text.

Derek couldn't resist for long. “What was that?”

Stiles didn't mind indulging him, though. He might be hurt with a hint of anger at having been hurt but Derek was still his unofficial Suicide Watch Coordinator – he needed to know what was going on. “I asked Scott to come over. I don't want to hang with you tonight.”

“Stiles...”

“Don't. I don't want to talk to you right now.”

“Look, I'm...”

“Stop.” Stiles didn't want an apology, because he was pretty sure Derek had meant what he'd said and there were too many layers for Stiles to unravel all at once. He needed time to think and Derek wasn't allowed any takebacks until he had the chance to unravel his words into a semblance of meaning. “Just stop, we'll talk later.”

“Stiles, I don't want -”

“Stop! Jesus Christ, Derek, what about 'stop' don't you understand?”

And of course, that sounded like a rape comment, which it wasn't supposed to be, and Stiles wished words would come out of his mouth the way they were supposed to for once. Finally, Derek stopped trying to talk, though Stiles didn't know if it was his comment and any misinterpretations that could have gone along with it or if maybe Derek was respecting his wishes.

Either way, Derek saw Scott on the porch as they pulled up and, as soon as Stiles was safely out of the car, he sped off.

“What was that all about?” Scott asked.

“We had an argument.” Stiles looked at his front door and at the cruiser in the driveway. “Want to go for a walk?”

“Sure,” Scott said, his eyebrows creased worriedly, almost animatedly. He was definitely picking up some of Derek's traits.

Stiles stuffed his hands into his pocket as they fell into step side by side. He could remember the hundreds of times, before licenses, when they would walk around the neighborhood or bike or, for a few months, skateboard.

“How are things with Allison?” Stiles asked.

“They're good,” Scott said hesitantly. “Is that what you're upset about?”

“What? No.” Stiles looked at Scott and scowled. “You were having dinner with her and your mom the other night. I thought that might have had significance.”

“Oh. Yeah. It was nothing.”

Stiles felt a sliver of his anger from earlier revive. “Yeah that sounds like nothing. Seriously what is with you guys trying to protect me but then make me walk into something to break it to me?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Nevermind.”

“Not nevermind, Stiles. If you've got something to say, say it. Don't take your anger at Derek out on me.”

“Fine. For one thing, I don't think it was nothing, you having dinner with Allison and your mom. You're hiding something from me. For two, you knew my dad was part of the Pack and you never told me.”

Scott had Regret Face and slumped shoulders, which gave Stiles a strange sense of satisfaction. “Allison and I are going to move in together,” he said.

“Oh,” Stiles said, surprised. “Good for you.” He truly meant it. Scott hadn't moved out of the house yet and Stiles knew living with your girlfriend was a whole new set of challenges. Stiles was kind of proud of Scott for not proposing first and _then_ suggesting cohabitation.

“Thanks. My mom and Allison aren't exactly best of friends so... I figured a weekly dinner might be good for all of us.”

“Wow. Well done. I mean, good on you, that's really mature.”

“It wasn't my place to tell you,” Scott said suddenly. “About your dad. It wasn't even Derek's place to tell your dad about werewolves.”

Stiles was glad their ability to switch topics and keep up with each other hadn't flagged over the years. “Why didn't you stop him?”

“I tried. I really did,” Scott said. Then he sighed. “Why didn't _you_ ever tell him?”

“Seriously? Werewolves? Danger? All that?”

“My mom said she was glad she knew. She worried about me a lot still but she was glad I told her.”

“You're a werewolf, Scott. You can protect yourself. And you're in the middle of it. It's not like you could have backed out.”

“Like you did.”

“Wow. You too?” Before Scott could react, Stiles waved him away. Despite what Derek had said, he felt in control of his emotions. “I didn't walk away willingly. And if I'd told my dad before the breakup, before college, he would have asked me to stop hanging with everyone. To stop hanging with you, and with Derek. And I wouldn't have been able to do that. You know that.”

“Your dad doesn't see it that way.”

Stiles looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“He thinks you didn't trust him.”

Then he stopped walking completely and Scott followed suit a moment later, turning to look at him. “Of course I trust him,” he said breathlessly.

“He doesn't know that.”

Just like what Caldwell had said – people don't know their mistakes until they get pointed out. “Do you think it was my fault?” Stiles asked softly.

“What?”

“Everything. Clarissa, my depression, Derek and me and the break up – was it all somehow my fault? If I'd told my dad sooner, if I'd stayed in California instead of going to the East Coast, if I'd fought Derek and argued with him to stay together... would things have ended differently?”

“Nothing has ended, Stiles.”

“Clarissa has.”

Scott winced. “Is this the stage of grief you're in? Regret?”

“That's not one of the stages...”

“Well, it should be. Stiles, you went to the East Coast because it was your second choice. Your first choice, here on the West Coast, didn't accept you. And your third choice didn't accept you either, also here on the West Coast. Remember? You went over it day and night and you decided it was a sign. You had to go. I agreed with you then and I still think you made the right choice.”

“Even though -”

“Even so. And dude, he broke up with you. He knew how heartbroken you were. He knew you still loved him. We all did. He should have gone after you and begged you to take him back.”

“But I didn't fight it.”

“You were in front of the whole pack, which was cowardly of him by the way. If he'd done it in private, the way he should have, you both know you would have fought.”

“But -”

“And you know, your dad's still here. At home. You can still mend things with him. I know you can. Sometimes, I think you two speak your own language, like a Stilinski code or something. You'll figure out how to get through this.”

Stiles felt a smile tug at his lips. “Still wish you'd called me, told me about Derek telling my dad.”

“Retrospect...” Scott shrugged. Stiles loved how it still only took one word and a gesture for Stiles to get the message, that hindsight was twenty/twenty, that Scott regretted not telling him, but it was also in the past so what can you do? Stiles forgave him his part in the debacle. “Besides. You were in college, thousands of miles away, having the time of your life. I didn't want to suck you back into all this.”

“It wouldn't have sucked me back in.”

“Shut up. We both know that's a lie.”

They continued walking for a few more blocks. “Had my first therapy session today,” Stiles said.

“Yeah? Is that where all this is coming from?”

“Kind of. I don't know. He asked questions I didn't even realize needed to be asked. Made me look at things in a different light. I thought I was going to hate him at first but... I think I kind of like him.”

“That's good. Good therapists are good.”

Stiles chuckled. Ever the eloquent one, Scott. “Yeah. Might increase my dosage though.” Stiles felt, for the first time, a little weird discussing his medications with Scott, even though everyone in the pack knew exactly what medications he was on, for what, when, and the dosage.

“Oh yeah? Why?”

“Apparently, I'm having too many panic attacks.”

“Well I could have told you that.”

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked suddenly. He could see the image of Derek, hunched over his desk, tense and crying and he was wondering if Scott was getting effected the same way. “With all of this? Me? The depression?”

Scott shrugged. “As okay as one can be, I guess. I mean. I'm your best friend. I'm supposed to be your pain buffer, help you fight the invisible battles in life. I sort of feel like I failed.”

“You didn't fail. It's not your fault.”

Scott shrugged and Stiles could tell it meant that Scott didn't believe him but he also didn't feel like arguing with Stiles. “How come you don't invite me to sleep over?” he asked suddenly.

Stiles blinked. “What?”

Scott's face turned beet red and Stiles was glad it wasn't yet the middle of summer, otherwise Scott's tan would be a lot darker and his blush would be a lot more difficult to see. “You invite Erica and Isaac to sleep over. And Boyd, apparently. But not me.”

Stiles stopped walking, feeling the true sensation of being struck dumb. “Scott. Are you telling me you want to sleep with me?”

Scott scratched his arm, an old injury that had, over the years, turned into a nervous habit. “No. Yes. Not like... forget it.”

Stiles didn't move.

“It's a werewolf thing, okay?” Scott said, throwing up his arms. “When people sleep, they're vulnerable. Especially humans. Your hearing sucks, your sense of smell sucks, you have very slow reflexes.”

“Thanks.”

“So it means a lot when you let us protect you. It actually lets us sleep better knowing you're not alone, that you're safe. Werewolves actually do like to sleep in packs or together, with their loved ones, to protect each other.”

“Well, you know I'm not alone. Isaac and Erica -”

“Yeah, I know. But they could... I don't know, mess up or something. Besides, there's a kind of... honor in doing it, in _being_ the protector person.” Stiles was pretty sure Scott's face was hot enough to cook an egg on.

“Does it really mean that much to you?”

“No,” Scott said in a way that Stiles knew he meant yes.

“Okay. Can you spend the night tonight?”

“Stiles, you don't have to -”

“I know I don't have to. Sleep with me, babe.”

Scott glared at him. “Call me 'babe' again and you're on your own.”

“After that little speech? Ha. I doubt I'll be able to get you _out_ of my bed.”

“Stiles. Shut up,” Scott said with a roll of his eyes. “What was your argument with Derek about, anyway?”

Stiles sighed. “I don't know. He made it seem like it was my fault.” Stiles remembered Derek's words, _No one forced you_. “I mean, he had a point. I think what he was trying to say was... I mean, I kind of blamed him for my depression. Like, me finding out my dad was part of the pack was the last straw, you know? Which was unfair. I mean, it was pretty annoying to see them in the kitchen like they were besties, you know? But... I should take responsibility for a lot of what's happened, too. That's what I think he was trying to say.”

Scott was quiet for a few minutes. “There's a difference between telling you to take responsibility and making it seem like your choices were wrong.”

Stiles looked at him sideways.

“And you know, he needs to take responsibility, too. If he wanted you to tell your father, he should have asked you or talked to you about it. If he still loved you, he shouldn't have broken up with you. If he didn't want you to go to college in Pennsylvania, he should have told you that. But I remember when you were deciding where to go, he wouldn't give you any input. Remember?”

Stiles did. The more Scott talked, the more he realized he needed to have a conversation – not just with Derek but with his dad, as well. Again.

“Did you know Jackson's back in town?” Stiles said abruptly.

Scott rolled with it easily. “Yeah, I saw him yesterday. He looked rough.”

“Seriously? I thought he looked good.”

Scott shook his head. “No, man, he looks rough. It didn't occur to me how painful it must have been being so far away and unable to do anything. Here I am bitching about not being able to sleep with you and he couldn't even see you or hear you.”

Stiles blinked. “He could have called,” he said distantly, thinking.

Scott shook his head. “Not good enough. Probably would have made it worse, to be honest. You going to hang out with him again?”

Stiles stopped walking, staring off into the distance. Jackson hadn't spoken with him in years. If anything, out of everyone in the Pack, Jackson and him were the least familial. And it struck him suddenly, like a punch to the stomach, that if Jackson had flown from Europe to see Stiles, because he was worried about him... if even Jackson still cared, then of course the rest of them would still care. Erica and Isaac slept with him because they wanted to, not because they pitied him or because Derek told them to. They actually wanted to. They cared. He was still Pack.

Once he put himself back into the picture, imagining him trying to erase himself, it turned into a weird two dimensional image in his head, how it must have been so painful for the others, realizing he was trying to erase himself from the picture. Realizing that they'd let him fade, let the colors run.

“What did you do when you first found out?” Stiles asked in a whisper.

“What?” Of course Scott had heard him but he had no idea where Stiles's mind had taken him.

“When he told you I tried to jump. What was the first thing you did?” Stiles had to know. He had to know what had happened when no one was looking. And he trusted Scott to tell him the truth.

“Destroyed my room.” Scott sighed. “I broke some very expensive things that day, let me tell you. It was a little weird trying to make up a lie to my mom as to why my mattress was against the window and the comforter was in the fan on the ceiling.”

“You were angry?” Stiles asked softly.

“Not at you. Maybe a little at you. Mostly at myself. And at Derek, for telling me not to come over. I wanted to see you, to hear you. But he told me not to, that it was better for you to just have some quiet.”

“I'm sorry,” Stiles said.

Scott elbowed him in the cast, which Stiles didn't feel at all. “Water under the bridge. Don't worry about it. You're getting better.”

Maybe if people said it often enough, it would start to be true.

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As the sun went down, Stiles and Scott finally sauntered back to Stiles's house. They'd spent the majority of the afternoon walking around, messing with each other, even stopping at the nearest grocery store for something to snack on. It felt good, like the old days.

When they stopped in front of his house, he felt his chest constrict, his shoulders slump. He needed to have another talk with his dad.

“Hey. You mind giving me some privacy?” he asked. “I want to have a conversation with my dad and... I want it to be just me and my dad.”

Scott looked at him warily. Scott knew Stiles meant out of sight _and_ out of hearing range.

“Could you maybe grab my headphones and listen to music?” Stiles asked when Scott looked ready to argue. “You can stay outside, make sure nothing gets in and stuff, but... I just need to have a one on one with my dad. Please.”

“Derek will kill me if something happens.”

“Nothing's going to happen.” When Scott started to bite his lip, Stiles continued. “Please, give me this and I'll let you cop a feel tonight.”

“What!”

“Be real, Scott, that's what you're really looking for tonight. I get it, I do. All of this,” he said with a wave to his body, “is very hard to resist. I'm rather proud of you for resisting this long, actually.”

“Oh my god, Stiles, I do not want to feel you up!”

“Okay, I get it, you're scared Derek or one of the other pack mates might get mad, jealous or something. Don't worry. I won't tell them. Derek and I aren't official anyway and I bet Erica has copped a feel or two while I was sleeping. I don't mind, I'm sure my hand has wandered, too.”

“If I give you privacy, will you stop talking about letting me feel you up?”

“Of course.” Stiles grinned.

Scott waved at him. “Go.”

Stiles took a deep breath before entering the house.

He followed the sound of the fridge closing and noticed his dad pulling out fixings for dinner. “Hey, Dad? Can we talk?”

“Sure, kiddo, what's up?” The Sheriff continued opening drawers and pulling out utensils, cutting boards, plates, and spices.

“Dad, can we maybe...” Stiles was at a loss for words. He needed his dad's full attention but if he blatantly said that maybe they should sit down, that might freak the Sheriff out. But how exactly do you tell someone to stay calm without giving the impression that you are about to tell them the equivalent of their puppy dying? “... talk in the living room?” he said after a moment of gestures.

The Sheriff looked at him, surprised and a hint of fear in his eyes. “Sure,” he said, not exactly eager but close. He ushered Stiles out of the kitchen.

“Dad, the food,” Stiles said. There was butter, broccoli, and salad dressing still on the counter.

“Don't worry about it,” his father said as they sat down on the couch. “What's going on?”

Side by side, Stiles was glad he didn't have to look his father in the face. He laughed nervously. “Where to start?”

“How about the beginning?” Which was a typical Sheriff response. Stiles figured the beginning was probably back in high school but he didn't really think that was the beginning in this instance.

“There was a day, after I got home from college, where you and Derek were in the kitchen drinking coffee. Together.”

“Yes?”

Stiles held his breath. “That upset me.”

The Sheriff shook his head in confusion. “How? Why?”

“Really, Dad? My ex and my dad drinking coffee when, the last I knew, you hated him? And the way you kept looking at him or, rather, _not_ at me, it was obvious you knew about werewolves?”

“Why would that upset you? Because you didn't want me to know?”

“No, Dad,” Stiles said, exasperated. “I mean, yes, kind of. But I wanted to know you knew, I wanted to be there. It would have been nice if -”

“If you had told me yourself?”

That hit Stiles like a sledgehammer, but he recovered quickly. “It wasn't my secret to tell,” he said softly.

“Derek has said he wouldn't have minded you telling me.”

“Well, it wasn't exactly his secret, either.”

“Melissa has known for a long time. Feed me another, Stiles.”

He stared at his father, open-mouthed. “I was trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

“From werewolves!” Stiles had to rein himself in. “I ran with werewolves, Dad. Supernatural beings that lose control once a month, who get Hunters chasing and killing them periodically. You would have worried about me, wanted me to stop hanging out with Scott and the rest of them, or wanted to be involved, which was worse! If you realized Derek and I were dating, too, that would have cinched it, you would have hated werewolves and gone over to the Hunters' side. I've seen what happens to Hunters, I didn't want that for you!” Stiles finally stopped, panting.

His father was quiet, thinking. Then, “So you thought keeping me in the dark would keep me safe.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said without hesitating. “You're a go-getter, Dad. You wouldn't have stopped at just knowing, you'd want to be hands-on.”

“You realize I'm the dad, you're the son? I'm supposed to keep you safe.”

Stiles shrugged. Ever since his mom died, Stiles didn't see it that way. And it got worse when Scott got bitten, which was because of Stiles, and again even worse when Lydia was attacked, which, yes, Stiles blamed himself for that, too. After a while, Stiles started to think he was cursed and that everyone he cared about was doomed to die or suffer. He was rather proud of himself for keeping his dad safe for so long, he became a kind of trophy to Stiles. Therefore, he treated his father with even more care.

“I don't think you get it, Stiles. You kept secrets from me for so long.” The Sheriff rubbed the bridge of his nose and Stiles knew he was developing a headache. “Your mother was sick.”

Stiles froze. “What?”

“At the time of the accident. She had cancer. Stage three is what they said. I got in touch with some of her doctors later on and... turns out she'd known. For months. Wasn't planning on doing anything about it, hadn't told me or even seemed like she was planning on telling me. She did write me a note, though. For after... A note,” his father chuckled, scornfully.

Stiles felt a cold finger slide down his spine. He'd written a note to his father, too. For after.

“You're a lot like her, you know that?” his father continued. Stiles looked at him stiffly. This talk of his mom, secrets and her being sick, was making Stiles's head spin. “Keeping secrets from me in an attempt to keep me safe. I hated that she did that, and I don't want it from you.” His father looked at him sideways, a mixture of sadness, anger, and fear etched into the lines around his eyes. “Whatever it is, whatever happens, I'd rather know. Don't protect me.”

“I'm depressed,” Stiles breathed. He was still reeling but it seemed like he was on auto-pilot, his mouth knowing exactly what needed to be said without his mind even participating.

“Excuse me?” his father said, a request to repeat it because he hadn't heard the first time.

“I'm depressed. I have depression.”

The Sheriff wiped his mouth and then wiped his hands on his pants. “Okay. I mean, that makes sense, what with Clarissa -”

“It started a long time ago, Dad. Maybe I should have started with this part. Remember that night you found me in the wood and you were looking for the other half of Laura Hale's body?”

“Yeah. Scott was with you but you pretended he wasn't.”

“I dragged him out that night. To look for the body. I brought him along and I left him there, alone. That was the night he got bit.”

“Stiles. You don't think -”

“And that mechanic? I heard him die. I couldn't do anything about it. And Lydia? Peter attacked her on the field. I tried to get to her in time but... I was too slow. And I... I embarrassed you, in the Sheriff's department, making you lose your badge. And then Gerard...”

“Gerard?”

“Allison's grandfather. He kidnapped me, alongside Erica and Boyd, and tortured me. Remember that epic lacrosse game and I disappeared after? It wasn't the other team, it was Gerard. A Hunter, by the way.” Stiles ran both his hands through his hair. “And there were so many other things, don't even get me started on senior year. I just kept... burying things, holding onto anything and everything, hoping if I shoved it down far enough, it would go away. And then Derek. I was in love with him and he broke up with me, in front of the pack. It was humiliating.” He hitched a sigh. “And then college happened. I thought I moved on, moved past it all, got over it, but then... Clarissa. The one good thing in my life, the one thing that... but then. Her vendetta to kill Derek, just the fact that she was a werewolf, and it was like... werewolves were some sort of curse that were following me around. And then I came home in a daze, and it all... came back to me. Everything. And seeing you, with Derek, after all I went through, with Derek and with Clarissa and just... you guys were just chumming it, like old pals... and I knew I would never get away. No matter what I did or what anyone else did to me...”

“Stiles,” his father breathed. Other than that, he was speechless. Breathless, it seemed. His eyes were bulging but his breathing was a strange, calm shallowness.

“So that's why. That's why I didn't want to tell you. Because Gerard was a Hunter and he tortured me just to send a message to Scott. Because even though I was the Alpha's boyfriend, even after all I'd done for the pack, they were able to shun me, exile me, without a second thought. Because we were in so much danger for so long that I thought... I don't know, I think I figured that, since I was out of the pack and gone, then somehow you were safe. I don't know, Dad. But it hurt... it hurt so much knowing that they were letting you into the pack but not me.”

“Stiles...” his father said again, placing a hand on Stiles's back. Stiles wasn't sure he wanted to be touched but he knew his father needed to touch him, so he allowed it.

“Anyway. I needed you to know. About me being depressed. I don't want to keep secrets from you anymore.”

“Thank you... for that. Do... do you want me to set you up with a therapist?”

“I'm already on it.”

“You are? Okay. Good. I'm glad.” A moment of awkward silence stretched between them. “Is that why the werewolves have been spending more time here? Because they can sense or smell your depression?”

“They're on suicide watch.”

“Well, that's a little overdramatic, isn't it? You're not...” His father trailed off. “Stiles?”

“No,” Stiles said. He wanted to say, 'No, not right now' or 'No, not anymore' but he knew his father would pick up on the inflection.

“Stiles? Are they being overdramatic?” Apparently, it didn't matter – his father picked up on it anyway.

Stiles closed his eyes and sighed. “No. They're not.”

“Stiles...” his father said again and it was starting to get to him how many times his father said his name. “What'd you do?”

He clenched his eyes shut. It sounded so accusatory. “I'm on medication now, Dad.”

“ _Stiles_ , _what did you do?”_ his father asked, pleading. Stiles couldn't handle his father pleading.

“I went up to Widow's Peak.”

That was all Stiles had to say before his dad grabbed him frantically and hugged him with such force, Stiles thought he might pop. His father was the Sheriff. He'd seen countless bodies over the years splattered on the rocks and rubble below Widow's Peak. He knew exactly what Stiles meant when he said he drove up there.

And Stiles had another wave of guilt crash over him then because who would have found him? Who would have had to identify him? And even though he didn't do it, he knew his father was remembering all those bodies, imagining Stiles as one of them. Or all of them. 

“I'm here, Dad. It's okay,” he said into his dad's shoulder.

“What stopped you?”

Stiles winced. His father thought he stepped back from the ledge on his own. But Stiles was on an honest streak, no matter how painful. “Derek.”

His dad pulled back, holding him at arm's length. “Derek?”

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded sadly. “Derek stopped me.”

Stiles could see the wheels turning in his dad's head. “Stiles. How close were you?”

He couldn't meet his father's eyes. “Close enough.”

“Stiles...”

“It's fine, I'm fine, Dad.” Seeing the fear, the panic, in his father's eyes was too much. “I'm on medication. And I'm seeing a therapist. And there's always a werewolf nearby. Until Derek tells them to stand down, there always will be.”

“And right now? I don't see any werewolves.”

“Scott's outside,” Stiles said. He thought it best to refrain from telling him Scott had his headphones in, per Stiles's request. “I told him I needed a minute with you.”

“So the whole pack knew about this before I did.”

“Yeah.” Stiles felt his stomach churning, realizing that the tables were turned now. Stiles was the last to know that his father was in the pack and now the Sheriff was the last to know that Stiles was depressed to the point of needing supervision. “Derek wanted me to tell you, Dad. He wanted to put me in a hospital. We compromised. Always have a werewolf near me but... I didn't want you to know.”

“Another secret to keep me safe?”

“And me,” Stiles whispered. “I didn't want to hurt you or make you think you failed. I didn't want to disappoint you... I didn't want you to think less of me.”

“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” his father said as he crushed him again into a hug.

“I wouldn't have been able to take that,” Stiles said. He was crying now, a small trickle of tears running down his face, as if he'd used up most of his reserve of tears already in the past couple of weeks but his body knew he needed the release.

“Depression isn't weakness, Stiles. I know that. You're not weak, you're strong. Jesus, Stiles, you are _so_ strong. You're still alive and you're getting help and you're taking medicine. Please don't leave me, Stiles,” his father said, his voice finally breaking. “I can't bury you, too.”

And then he felt his father's shoulders start to shake, and he was apologizing and his father was apologizing and then they just held each other for a long time.


	9. Chapter 9

Derek was in his room looking furious when Stiles finally said goodnight to his father.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Derek started in on him immediately. “We can't keep you safe if you tell us to stay outside and put headphones on!”

“Did Scott go home?” Stiles asked.

“No, he's doing laps around the town, for leaving you unprotected.” Stiles could tell Derek wanted to go red eyes on him but was holding himself back.

“Oh come on, don't punish him. I got him with puppy eyes, he's never been able to resist the puppy eyes.”

“Are you kidding me, you're going to make jokes now?”

“Isn't that what you want from me?” Stiles asked. He was feeling strangely clear-headed and confrontational, two things that didn't always go together with him. “The old Stiles who jokes in serious situations?”

“I'd like you to take this seriously, to take me, as your Alpha, seriously. When I give an order, I want it to be followed.”

“Funny. You want me to take you, _as my Alpha_ , seriously when that is literally the first time I've heard you even acknowledge me as part of your pack.”

“Don't be ridiculous, of course you're -”

But Stiles flew into a cold rage at the word. “Ridiculous? _Ridiculous_? Everyone else has said I'm Pack, that I've never stopped being Pack, everyone but you, which means _they,_ at least, knew that I needed to hear it. Take you seriously as my Alpha? Fuck you, Derek. You broke my heart, you broke _me_ in front of the entire Pack and the last I knew, Alphas _protect_ their betas and human packmates from that kind of thing. You've never said that I'm Pack and you haven't treated me as Pack in years. Take you seriously? Kiss my ass, Derek.” Stiles was close to Derek now, having gotten closer during his spiel, each sentence and curse bringing him one step closer.

Derek refused to be cowed, though. “So these last two weeks have meant nothing?”

“No, they don't mean nothing, Derek, they're a good start. But I can't just forgive and forget. How do I know you won't do it again? Just because you say I'm part of the Pack doesn't mean I suddenly am, I get a say in it, too, you know!”

That brought Derek up short. “So you don't _want_ to be Pack?”

“I didn't say that, Derek!” Stiles said, exasperated. “If you want me in the Pack, you have to treat me like Pack.”

“I thought -”

“So where's Peter been?” Stiles asked, pinning Derek with his eyes the same way he had with Caldwell. He didn't do it often with Derek, not because he was afraid of him but because he knew Derek didn't like it. It brought out a kind of competitive spirit in Derek's wolf and Derek didn't like feeling that way towards Stiles, so he'd told him one time after Stiles had used the look on him. “Huh? What's going on with the Pack? Hunters? Rogue wolves? Alpha Pack? You going to tell me? Or are you going to keep pretending to keep me safe by not telling me?”

“I'm not -”

Stiles knew he was going to argue, to say that he's not pretending, but Stiles was on a roll. “The way I see it, you're keeping me alive because of my dad. Because he _is_ part of the Pack. Because losing me would be devastating to him. But once I'm fine and recovered, it's all going to go back to the way it was, with me on the outside and everyone cold. I'll be back to being alone.”

“Is that really what you think?” Derek breathed.

“Not really,” Stiles said, holding strong to his anger. The look in Derek's eyes was threatening to soften his rage but he wasn't ready to be softened. “But I believe it _could_ be true. The fact is, I don't trust you. I trust you'll protect me from outside threats and from myself, yes, but I don't trust you to protect me from you.” Derek flinched at that but Stiles pressed on. “You are the number one person, besides my dad, who could hurt me the most and I'm not going to let go of my anger at you until you earn it, until you earn my trust back. I'm not going to walk into that trap again.”

“Stiles...”

“Do you blame me?” Stiles knew it was low, using this tactic. Stiles had asserted himself and now he was forcing Derek to verbalize his own agreement, so in the future Derek couldn't look back and try to convince himself that he hadn't had a chance to speak, to deny it, to defend himself. Stiles was giving him a chance but it was in the lowest, most under-the-belt way possible. “ _Can_ you blame me? After all that's happened, do you really expect me to roll over and bare my neck to you?”

Derek shook his head quietly.

Now was the hardest part for Stiles because, now that he'd made his point, he just wanted to let go of the anger, drop his guard and pull Derek in for a hug, to tell him that he _did_ forgive him, even if he didn't, just to make his face stop looking like that.

But it was true. Stiles had imagined pack meetings and how they might proceed in the future and he'd kept feeling his heart start to race. He'd imagined them all sitting around, shooting hesitant glances at him, maybe pitying even. He'd tried to imagine offering his two cents into the meeting but he'd always come up short, halting his imaginary words in fear that, if he said the wrong thing, Derek would snap, break up with him again, like, 'sorry, we gave it a second chance but I'm just not feeling it, you're dismissed.' Stiles had had enough of walking on eggshells around people, he wouldn't survive a relationship like that.

And it broke his heart because he knew he might never trust Derek again.

But Stiles had to do what was right for Stiles. “I've had a long day,” he said, finally dragging his eyes away from Derek to shuffle some things around his room. “Can you get Scott back here? He's got the night watch.”

It was a sign as to how much Stiles's words had effected Derek when he said, “Sure,” softly, in an uncharacteristically defeated voice, and jumped out the window.

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 “So, do you have a first name?” Stiles asked before Caldwell could speak.

“Of course,” the doctor said, not even trying to hide his amusement.

“Well of course, duh, but would you mind if I called you by your first name? I keep referring to you as Caldwell in my head.”

“Most do call me by my last name, actually, so that's fine.”

It had been a week and Stiles had finally upped his medicine the previous day when he'd had three panic attacks between waking up at ten and three o'clock that afternoon. Erica had finally put her foot down and told him to up the medicine or she was going to take over cooking breakfast from Isaac indefinitely. 

The first had been triggered by something they'd been watching wherein one of the main characters had died by choking on their own blood. That had been fun, immediately being bombarded of images of Clarissa in a similar situation. 

The second had been triggered by a call on the radio regarding a possible shooting, officer down, near where his father had last called from. Luckily, it hadn't been his father and the officer in question had had a heart attack but had gotten to the hospital in time and was now fine. 

The third had been triggered by a song he heard on the radio, which had strangely transplanted him back to his jeep right after Derek had broken up with him four years ago. It was strange because he'd heard the song dozens of times since the break up and it had never caused a panic attack before.

He didn't tell Erica any of this, though he knew he probably should.

“You seem more energetic today than you were last week,” Caldwell said.

“I convinced my friends to let me skip my Adderall today, finally. I don't like taking it in the summer but they didn't want me switching my medicine around but I got my dad to back me up.” Stiles wasn't exactly bouncing around but the thought of sitting gave him an itch under his skin, so he was pacing around the office.

“That's good. It's nice to have support.”

Of course he could bring it around to that. But Stiles grabbed at an opportunity. “So we talked. My dad and I. Last week. My dad and me?” He shrugged. “I told him I was depressed. And about Widow's Peak. And he started talking about my mom.” Stiles knew he was talking fast but he was trying to keep Caldwell from asking too many questions about his dad's reaction. “Apparently she was sick when... Like, really sick. And she never told my dad. He said I was a lot like her. And ever since, I've been reading her books. Like, I couldn't before. Like, I didn't feel like I deserved to, in a way? As if they were sacred. But now that I know she had secrets and darkness, like this cancer was eating away at her and she didn't tell anyone. And... it's kind of a morbid thing to bond over, but it makes me feel closer to her. So... it's almost like... I've earned the right now, if that makes sense?” Stiles knew he'd thrown a lot at Caldwell all at once, which had been intentional. The more you threw at a therapist all at once, the more options they have to latch onto a subject – and therefore, the more chances they have of not latching onto something you don't want them to.

That is, if their memory is not that great and they don't mentally catalog each and every thing you say with the intent of bringing it up later. Then you're just feeding them material.

“You feel depression is like a cancer?”

“No,” Stiles said immediately, but then he stopped. “Well. Actually. Yeah.”

“How so?”

Stiles sat in a chair for a moment, rolling the Rubik's cube around in his hand, not trying to solve it, just needing the texture and feel of something in his hands. “Well. To some extent, with each, you feel like a burden. When you're physically sick, with cancer, other people have to get your medicine or take you to appointments. With depression, even if you're hiding it, you feel like you're weighing other people down, like they're always watching you. Which I guess is true for cancer, too. And feeling like you have to hide it, that's the same for both. But there's also the fact that... you never truly feel cured. With cancer, you're in remission for a while. But even when the doctors clear you, you still feel the presence. Like it could come back at any time. Or a different cancer could form, because you're more aware of your own mortality. But with depression, no one can call you cleared except yourself. And even when you clear yourself, if you have a bad day, which everyone has bad days, you feel like, 'could this be it? Is this just a bad day or is this the beginning of my descent into depression?' And then you feel like you need to catch it, catch yourself, before it catches you. But sometimes, it's like cancer. You can eat healthy all you want, exercise the recommended amount of time, do all the right things, but it stills catches you. And you still feel responsible.”

“You feel like a burden?” Caldwell asked softly.

“Always,” Stiles said just as softly, meeting Caldwell's eyes. “But it's okay. I mean, it sucks. But it's okay.” Stiles took a deep breath. “It's what love is all about. Not just being there for other people, which I like to think I'm pretty good at, but also letting others be there for you, even when you feel like you should be strong enough to deal. Love is letting other people support you. I've never been great at that. Going to others for help.”

“Even when it was just you and your father?”

“Especially then,” Stiles whispered.

“So you never let him take care of you?”

“Well you say it like if I was sick, I pretended I was healthy. Which is so not the case, I'm the biggest baby when it comes to colds and flus. But with panic attacks? Yeah, I kept those secret the best I could. I mean, there were definitely days when I couldn't hide it but even when he was there helping me out, it kind of made the attack worse? Because I knew that, by freaking out, I was freaking him out. And that bothered me a lot. But... I mean, seeing him break down after my mom's funeral... I realized I had to be strong. I never wanted to see him like that again. Even if it was at my own cost.”

“And now? How do you feel about letting him take care of you now?'

Stiles thought back over the last week, how his dad's shoulders had seemed less tense, how he'd seemed almost eager to get Stiles's medication refill, the way his face had lit up when Stiles suggested going for a walk by the river, which they hadn't done in years. “I don't like it but he likes it and I like that he likes it, and it's good for me, so it's good.”

Caldwell gave a small smile. “Just because something is good for you and makes other people happy doesn't mean you should do it.”

“True. But sometimes you should. Because sometimes you don't like something but later, after people have convinced you to do it, you're glad they convinced you. Like, sometimes you don't feel like being social, you feel like staying inside and watching reruns and eating popcorn. But your friends convince you to go out and be social. And sometimes, maybe not always, but sometimes you're really glad you let them convince you to go out because you actually did have a lot of fun and being social was something that you really needed at that time. Am I making sense?”

Caldwell smiled wider this time. “You are. However, it takes a lot of wisdom to know the difference between something you truly want to do and something you want to do to make others happy.”

“I know. I'm working on it. On knowing the difference.”

“Good. You mentioned the word love.”

Stiles cringed and got back up to pace, putting the cube back on the desk.

“Is that true? That you feel loved? Or are you parroting?”

Stiles shot him a dirty look but he wasn't necessarily angry. He wanted to say that he was parroting, that everyone pitied him or felt bad for him. That his dad felt like he was just dead weight. But he knew it wasn't true. “My dad loves me. I don't think I ever really questioned that. But I think I thought he hated me, too. You can love someone and hate them at the same time. But... I don't think he hates me? I'm not even making any sense.”

“Why did you think he hated you?”

“I don't know. Like. Because I kept secrets. Because I reminded him of my mom and the secrets she kept. Because I have my mom's eyes. Because I didn't keep in touch. Because I'm not... I haven't always been the best son.”

“No one's perfect, Stiles. Everyone makes mistakes, remember?”

“Yeah well. I don't like screwing up when it comes to my dad. He deserves better. He's been through a lot.”

“So have you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said exasperatedly, “but I didn't have my...” Stiles trailed off. He was going to say that he didn't have his wife die. His wife didn't keep secrets from him. 

It crashed down on Stiles suddenly how similar their situations were. He couldn't say it to Caldwell, though. Caldwell didn't know Clarissa was dead.

And after reading some of his mom's old notes in the books she'd left behind, he was starting to think maybe she'd kept more than just the cancer a secret.

“Yes?”

“The mother of my child didn't die in a horrific car crash that left his only son unscathed.”

Caldwell tilted his head to the side. “You say that like you coming out unharmed was a bad thing. Is that how you see it?”

Stiles sighed, not wanting to open up that can of pain inside of him but knowing it was probably for the best. “Sometimes, I just think... it should have been me. Or rather, she's the one who should have survived.”

“You blame yourself for her death?”

“No. But I think sometimes... sometimes I think he does.”

Caldwell just stared at him sadly for a few moments.

“It's fine, it's something I've gotten used to over the years. And I know logically that he doesn't actually blame me.”

Caldwell wrote something down in his pad, a brief note of sorts, before looking back up at him. “So you talked to your dad. How about the... the boyfriend? The ex? How should I refer to him?”

“Derek. His name is Derek.” The past few days had been cold and awkward between them. Derek always had a look in his eyes, like he was defeated. Something Stiles had said to him had damn near destroyed him. And it hurt because Stiles knew he'd had to say those things. But now it seemed like Derek had lost hope in them, a direct result of something Stiles had said, and that wasn't what he wanted. “I talked to him, too. I think I ruined everything.”

“How so?”

Stiles ignored the question. “I think I'm going to tell them to stop hovering. Scott brought me to this session but if it wasn't him, it was going to be Isaac. But I just... I like having them around but I don't _need_ them around, you know? And they need to know I don't need them.”

“So the Citalopram is working?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Any more panic attacks?”

Stiles bit his lip. “A couple. But not as frequent. I increased the dosage like you said.”

“Any other side effects?”

The nightmares had gotten worse but he decided to keep that to himself. It probably wasn't related to the medications. He shook his head.

“So what kind of books did your mother leave behind?”


	10. Chapter 10

A week later, Stiles couldn't take the silence anymore. Derek had invited him to a Pack meeting but Stiles had been lost the entire time. No one clued him in, though everyone's eyes darted back and forth between him and Derek. Stiles didn't doubt they were wondering who was going to break first: Derek or him. But Stiles had told Derek that he needed to earn the trust back so Stiles remained stubbornly silent and therefore clueless.

He began to wonder if he should man up and pull himself out of the pack, despite how much that would hurt. If Derek didn't want to clue him in, then it created tension among the rest of the Pack, which he'd witnessed at the meeting. That wasn't fair to them. And if Derek wouldn't kick him out, for good this time, then maybe Stiles needed to do it himself.

Since the meeting the night before, different pack members had shown up, hesitant but with a determined look in their eyes. Isaac had shown up in the morning and made breakfast almost angrily, slamming the cupboards with more force than necessary. Erica and Boyd had shown up for cuddles early in the night, as opposed to the middle of the night when Stiles was too exhausted to protest, and proceeded to almost rage cuddle, which Stiles hadn't even known was possible until they did it. Scott had invited him over for dinner later that night, where Melissa kept shooting Stiles unreadable looks until dinner was over and they sank into the couch for some Halo. Then she brought out fresh cookies for them to munch on. Stiles couldn't remember Melissa ever making cookies.

But Derek remained evasive, Peter MIA, which was fine with Stiles, and he thanked his unlimited texting plan daily due to the constant back and forth he had with Lydia, who hadn't made it to the meeting but probably would have caused a scene if she had.

So when no one showed up by one that day, save for Isaac, who had aggressively cleaned the breakfast dishes and then left afterwards, Stiles hopped in his car and drove. He didn't even know where he was going at first, though he thought briefly of making a stop at his mother's grave. He ditched that thought rather quickly, hating the site because of it's cold indifference to who his mother had been. He didn't like going to a cold gray stone to talk to or think about his mom. Looking at her picture or just talking to her in the house when no one else was home was enough for him. Those were the places where her memory lived on.

He also thought of going to the Sheriff's Department but then he decided he wasn't ready for that quite yet. He wasn't sure what the Department knew of Stiles's situation but no doubt they would ask him what was new in life and feel the need to tell him how good or how bad he looked (depending on how honest they were), and he really wasn't ready for an interrogation, especially by people who were trained to sniff out lies and read unreadable hand gestures and eye movements.

Scott was with Allison for the day, so best friend hang out time was out. Stiles didn't mind – Scott had had so little time with Allison recently, Stiles was kind of glad he'd skipped out on him. He deserved it.

The Hale house and Derek's apartment were high on his list of options but his stubbornness kicked in and he scratched that idea, as well.

So he just drove.

An hour later, he threw the car in park and then laughed at himself when he realized where he was. He hadn't exactly lost time but he definitely did not make a conscious decision to drive up to Widow's Peak.

Most of the drive, he'd been thinking about his mother. Sometimes, driving brought out conversations with his mother. It was one of the few times he was well and truly alone, without fear of his father walking in or a werewolf passing by to hear him. It had started when he had the jeep, because his father said she had had an intense love of jeeps all her life, but even when he got the Honda, he couldn't break the habit.

He kept thinking about how she'd died so young. About how he could barely remember her face anymore, even with the picture he had by his bed and in his wallet. About how he felt closer to her when he ran his fingers over the writing in the margins of the books she'd left, a kind of chicken scratch that made him laugh because it so reminded him of his own. He'd only been able to get through one book so far, Alice in Wonderland, because, now that he knew she'd known she had cancer, the philosophical and insightful comments she'd made were no longer fun and interesting to read but instead weighed heavily on his heart.

But even though the comments were sad and sometimes bitter, it also seemed like they resonated with hope. Stiles didn't know what to make of that.

He turned the music down, decided not to roll up the windows, and got out of the car.

At the edge of the cliff, he stopped, looking over the trees below. The mountains in the distance. He closed his eyes and breathed in, feeling like something inside was shattering and then coming back together in the most delicious way.

“Stiles.”

He looked off to the left and, sure enough, Derek was standing a good twenty feet away. Stiles gave a small chuckle, feeling too good to feel angry at the obvious breach in privacy. Besides, Derek looked funny and a bit pale. He probably thought Stiles had relapsed. “C'mere,” Stiles said, holding out a hand to him as he went back to looking to the horizon.

Before he could blink, Derek was beside him, one hand grasping his and the other looping into his belt loops in his jeans.

“I'm not going to jump,” he said, giving a squeeze to Derek's hand. Then he let himself really look at Derek. “You're shaking,” he said, surprised.

Derek gave a laugh but it sounded a little more like a sob. In fact, he looked like he was about to fall apart. 

“Derek,” Stiles said gently and he pulled Derek to him, wrapping his arms around Derek's shoulders, threading his fingers in his hair. Holding him, Stiles realized he was downright quaking, practically vibrating. “Smell me. Listen to my heart. I'm not going to jump.”

Derek's arms snaked around Stiles and held on, firm but gentle. “What do you want me to do?” Derek asked against the skin under his ear. “What do you need?” Stiles felt more than he heard Derek's breath hitch, a half-formed sob leaking out. “Please tell me. Whatever you need, Stiles. Whatever it is. Please. I don't know what...”

“Shh,” Stiles said, running his hand up and down Derek's back. “Just breathe, Derek.”

Derek laughed into his neck.

Stiles held him for a few minutes, surprised at his own lack of guilt. He felt mildly guilty at how scared Derek seemed but something about the moment was so intimate, so _right_ that he couldn't feel too overly guilty about it when it led to something so nice. He wondered if Derek would classify this moment as 'nice.' 

“Come here,” Stiles said, pulling Derek with him back to the car. He hopped onto the hood and pulled Derek to sit in the V of his legs so Stiles was hugging him from behind, both of them looking out over the cliff. Derek was still shaking but not as much. Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek's waist, linking his fingers on Derek's stomach, and rested his chin on Derek's shoulder. “I needed to come here. I needed to prove...” He sighed. “The last time I was here, I saw the cliff as an ending. There was the ground and then nothing. But that's not what I see today. I look at the cliff and... it's like someone turned on the lights. I see the mountains and I want to climb them. I see the trees and I smell the sap and pollen and... I like it. It feels good to be alive.” Derek's shoulders sagged, as if he'd been holding a weight and finally, he'd been relieved of it. “I'm not going to say I'm cured. I'm not sure I'll ever be fully cured. But I want to live.”

Derek's hands settled on Stiles's biceps. “What do you want from me, Stiles?”

“Derek...?”

“To fix this. To fix us. What do you want? What do you need?”

“I need to know _you_ want it, Derek. This isn't something you can fix with a snap of your fingers. It takes time.”

“I need you to know,” Derek said. Then he turned, linking his fingers with Stiles's as he did so. “I want this. I'm not always good at showing it or saying it but I do. I'll do anything.”

“Then where are you? Where have you been? Why won't you tell me what's going on in the pack? Or... do you want me, like, as a boyfriend but not a pack member?”

“What?” Derek had a thunderstruck, panicked look in his eyes.

“Should I step out of the pack? Is that what we need?” He motioned back and forth between them. 

“No, Stiles,” Derek said, and he seemed to try to move closer to Stiles, but their positions were awkward and they were on the hood of a car. He only managed to jostle them a bit. “I'm an Alpha. My life is the pack.”

Stiles winced before he could stop himself. Usually, he thought of himself as Pack, but sometimes when Derek or the others mentioned the Pack, like now, it felt like they were talking about something else, something Stiles wasn't a part of. Now, it sounded like Derek was saying that his life was the Pack and there just wasn't room for Stiles in it.

“You're Pack,” Derek said, the panic still in his voice.

“How come I don't feel like Pack?” Stiles asked softly. “How come you still haven't told me what's going on? How come you don't sleep with me?”

Derek jumped a little. “What?”

“Scott explained it to me, how werewolves like to sleep with their pack mates, especially if they're hurt or sad.” Stiles waved his still casted arm. “I've been both of those but you haven't slept with me in weeks. I promise I won't force -”

Derek put two fingers over Stiles's mouth. “You never forced. And anyway, I thought you wouldn't want me to. I thought you didn't want me there.”

“Well you're an idiot then,” Stiles said after he pulled Derek's hand from his mouth.

“You said you were angry at me. That you didn't trust me.”

“I also said you needed to earn my trust, to earn my forgiveness. That doesn't mean you disappear.”

“I thought you wanted space!”

“I never said I wanted space! How do you earn trust and forgiveness by not spending any time with me or talking with me?”

“I thought...” Derek trailed off. Stiles understood, though. He thought it had been the end of the line.

“I wasn't very clear then. I don't trust you and I'm still angry at you, and you need to earn the forgiveness, but Derek, I really want you to earn it fast because I fucking miss you. I miss us.” Against his better judgment, he leaned forward and caught Derek's lips in a kiss. “I miss this. And your stupidity is making it so fucking difficult to hang onto my anger.”

Derek grabbed Stiles's jaw and brought him back in for another kiss. It was soft and gentle, but firm, like Derek was telling him he liked it, that he was all for kisses, but if or when he went too far, too many, he'd pull back, no harm done. Then Derek pulled away, just enough to rest cheek to cheek. “Can we please get off this cliff now?” he growled into Stiles's ear.

“Sure,” Stiles said with a chuckle. He dug out his keys and handed them to Derek. Even though he'd been given more independence and more privacy, and therefore now drove himself around, he felt better handing the reins to Derek. Derek would see it as a sign of willingness to try. A show of trust, even if only mildly.

“Can we go to my place?” Derek asked hesitantly.

Stiles nodded. “Sure.”

“Are you going to answer everything with 'sure'?” Derek asked wryly.

There was a time when Stiles, out of spite, would have said, 'sure.' He'd grown up a lot in the last few years, though, so instead he only smiled.

The ride to Derek's apartment was quiet. The radio was low on a light rock station, which Stiles almost asked Derek about but decided not to in fear of ruining the mood. Stiles wasn't even sure what the mood was, exactly, but his mind wasn't racing, his emotions were stable, and he felt on the verge of a smile the entire time. He realized, then, that being on the verge of a smile felt almost better than actually smiling. He was happy.

Inside the apartment, Derek put his keys in a jar on the counter. Stiles quirked an eyebrow but decided one of the pack had probably suggested (read: insisted on) to cut down on car key Search and Rescue Missions.

“Want something to drink?” Derek asked.

Stiles shook his head, grasped Derek's hands, and led him to the bedroom silently. He wasn't sure what he was doing, was pretty sure Derek didn't know what he was doing, but he was letting instinct take the wheel.

Stiles wasn't a werewolf but he knew Derek was nervous, maybe even a little shaky still from Widow's Peak. And the fact that he kept showing up right when Stiles needed him was proof enough that Derek did still care, still loved him, even if he was too dense to show it. Stiles always felt, with Derek, like he had to step aside, let Derek take control. But when it came to them, just Stiles and Derek, Stiles realized he needed to sometimes lead the way. So he did.

Inside Derek's bedroom, he kicked off his shoes, maintaining eye contact with Derek, trying to keep one hand on him at all times. Then he peeled off his socks, unbuttoned his jeans and tossed them away, finally slipping off his shirt, before crawling onto the bed, reclining in just his boxers.

Derek stared at him silently for a minute or two before silently following suit. It was strange for the air between them to be so silent but it seemed exactly what the mood called for.

When Derek tried to lay next to Stiles, Stiles grabbed his arm and tugged until Derek was laying sprawled on top of Stiles. “Can you even breathe like this?” Derek muttered.

“Derek, you're a werewolf, not an elephant. You're fine.”

Derek bit Stiles's pectoral in retaliation. Stiles jumped and laughed, letting his hands wander.

“Keep your fangs to yourself.”

“Are we okay?” Derek asked after a few more minutes of silence.

Stiles sighed. “No. But we're getting there.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Stiles closed his eyes and decided to have mercy on him. “It's better when you think of these things yourself but... I deserve an apology.”

“Stiles, I'm -”

“In front of the pack.”

“Oh.”

“And you have to let me in on what's going on with the pack.”

“Okay.”

“And just... talk to me. Spend time with me. Be honest with me. I don't know, Derek. I haven't had a good track record with relationships, either, you know.”

“But you think we _can_ be okay? At some point?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think we can.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“I've only been waiting for forever.”


	11. Chapter 11

Jackson ended up staying longer than he'd planned. He called work and begged off, stating he had a family emergency and needed an undisclosed amount of time off.

“They let you do that?” Stiles asked. They were sitting at the table, his father having just left for work. It had been weird seeing Jackson and his father interact, both of them part of the Pack but neither having met each other in that capacity before.

“Yeah, they're pretty good over there about getting time off for family.”

“You mean in London or at your job?”

“Oh, I'm in Berlin now. Have been since graduation in January. But I mean in Europe in general, for the most part.”

Stiles didn't know where to start. “Okay, number one, Berlin? Number two, you graduated in January?”

Jackson grinned over the rim of his mug. “Berlin's the big city of Europe right now. It's really nice, too. The weather is a bit cooler than California but still nice. And yeah, I decided to take extra classes in the winter and summer semesters towards the end. I was eager to get to Berlin.”

“Oh yeah? Girlfriend?” Stiles said wiggling his eyebrows.

“Well. Maybe.” Jackson placed his mug on the table and sat back. “And my job. It started in March and I wanted to get settled before then.”

“Do you even know any German?”

“Ja,” Jackson said. “Du bist ein Arschloch. I minored in it, actually. I'm not fluent yet but I'm getting there.”

“What did you just say?” Stiles said, not trusting the grin on Jackson's face.

“I said the coffee is really good,” Jackson said. “You should come visit sometime. Berlin's great.”

“So who's the lucky girl?”

“Her name is Ana.” He said it with a German accent and Stiles really wished he'd stop with the accent and the foreign language. It was borderline hot, which just made Stiles very confused. “And his name is Kieran.”

Stiles blinked. “What?”

Jackson chuckled and pulled the mug to his lips again. “Yeah. Ana and I have been together for about a year and a half now and Kieran joined the mix about a year ago.”

“Joined the mix? So they... know about each other?”

“It's called polyamory. We're all in the relationship together.”

“Like. A girl and two guys?”

Jackson looked at him and nodded like Stiles was an idiot.

“Lucky bastard. I didn't even know you swung both ways.”

“Yeah, me neither. Until Kieran.” Jackson's gaze turned soft and distant, a smile tugging at his lips, and Stiles realized he was in love. 

“And she's cool with that?”

“Ana? Yeah,” Jackson nodded. The smile only seemed to get bigger. Jackson had it bad. “The chemistry between us... the um... all of it. It wouldn't be the same if any of us left.”

Stiles felt a grin spread across his face. He'd never seen Jackson so happy and seeing him happy made Stiles happy. “That's good. That's real good. I'm happy for you.”

“How about the others? Are Scott and Allison still together?”

Stiles chuckled. It was almost like, because Jackson was in love, he was suddenly interested in everyone else's love lives. “Yeah, actually. Scott is thinking about moving in with Allison.”

“That's good. I never really liked Allison but... she's good for him. How about Isaac?”

“Honestly? I don't know. I sleep with the guy every night, I feel like I should know,” Stiles said with a laugh.

Jackson's eyebrows furrowed. “You sleep with Isaac yet you don't know his love life?”

“Not sleep like that! Like pack mates, puppy pile kind of sleep. Erica usually sleeps in my bed, too. Sometimes Boyd.”

Jackson stared at him for a moment and Stiles started to get defensive, like Jackson was going to scold them for bad touching or something. “Can I?” Jackson said instead, surprising him.

“You want to... spend the night?”

Jackson nodded.

“Ana and Kieran won't be jealous?”

Jackson shook his head. “They know I have a Pack here. They'd probably berate me actually, if I didn't. So it's settled. I'm spending the night.”

Stiles thought for a moment. “Let's have the whole Pack over. Like. An official, full-on puppy pile. I'm sure if everyone brought blankets and pillows, the floor would be good enough.”

Blue eyes met his seriously. “Is that what you want?”

Stiles realized suddenly that that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted the entire Pack at his house, surrounding him, watching movies, eating pizza, teasing each other and mock wrestling. He needed everyone there. 

“You want to make the call or me?” Jackson asked, waving the cell phone.

Apparently, it was a well liked plan, considering no one was able to wait until night to come over. Scott was the first to arrive, sporting a futon mattress, followed by Allison who had a box full of cookies and cupcakes. Immediately, the living room was taken over, furniture pushed to the edges, game systems being set up at the TV. Stiles found himself in the kitchen with Allison while Jackson and Scott started setting up the floor for the night.

“How are you doing?” Allison asked.

Stiles sighed. “Better,” he said. “Not like a _lot_ better. But a little bit better. Which is good. Progress.” He gave her a small, hesitant smile.

“Good.” She touched his cast. “You excited to get this off?”

“I still have a couple of weeks but yeah. It itches like a bitch. Luckily I haven't been driving much, otherwise my tan would be even more lopsided than normal.”

Erica and Boyd walked into the kitchen and immediately wrapped Stiles up in a hug, an Erica and Boyd sandwich and Stiles was the creamy filling. He buried his face in Boyd's shoulder and smiled. Allison nodded at them knowingly before slipping out into the living room, giving them their privacy.

Having Jackson in town, the fact that he had been worried about Stiles, made him realize how much of an effect his decisions and actions had probably had on the rest of the Pack. He wanted to say so much to them, wanted to tell them he was sorry, tell them he understood now that they cared, that they weren't faking it, that they weren't pitying him. But none of the words would come so he just clutched them, pushing into Boyd and grabbing at Erica behind him with his good arm, hoping they understood. They didn't pull away for a long time.

In the living room, Isaac had showed up along with another futon mattress from Derek's loft. Stiles looked around quickly but couldn't spot Derek.

“Hey,” Isaac said.

Stiles made grabby hands at him, wanting to give him a hug like he'd given Erica and Boyd. He gave Stiles a confused look but came to him as beckoned and Stiles pulled him in for the tightest hug he could manage. “Thank you,” he whispered in Isaac's ear, Isaac's arms tightening around him at the words. He understood.

“Isaac's got a girlfriend,” Jackson said, as if tattling on him.

Stiles pulled back to look Isaac in the eye and found that he was blushing. “When did this happen?”

“She's not... we just had coffee,” Isaac said, getting redder by the moment. “How are you doing, by the way?” Isaac asked Stiles.

“No, no, we're talking about you and your smooch muffins.”

“Smooch muffins, I don't have smooch muffins!” Isaac said. “Or even a smooch muffin. It's not... it's... there's nothing... don't jinx it!”

Stiles grinned as everyone else started to rag on him.

“We're getting married.”

All eyes turned to Erica, who looked nervous but had her chin up high like she dared anyone to say anything. Her fingers were laced in Boyd's, who was smiling crookedly.

“He bought me a ring,” she said, holding up her left hand.

Isaac let go of Stiles and went over to Erica, sniffing her unashamedly.

“You're pregnant,” he said.

“Well, okay, that too,” she said.

Boyd erupted into laughter.

“Shut up!” she yelled at him though it was without any real heat.

“So when's the wedding? Before or after the baby?” Jackson asked.

She kept glancing around at everyone and blinking but her smile was positively stunning. “Before. So, like, in a month. Maybe less,” she said as Allison and Scott admired her ring. “Before I get too fat for the dress.” Stiles didn't want to get too close, knowing a ring would probably trigger a panic attack. But the knowledge that, despite his meltdown and near suicide, they were still able to be happy, to think of their future, actually made him feel mushy. 

“Congratulations,” Derek said from the doorway. None of the wolves were surprised but Allison and Stiles both jumped at his voice.

“You've known, haven't you?” Boyd asked.

“I was wondering how long it would take for Scott and Isaac to pick up on it,” Derek said, giving the two wolves in question meaningful looks.

“I've never smelled a pregnant woman before, how could I know?” Scott exclaimed.

“Isaac picked up on it,” Derek said.

“Today,” Scott said. “How long has she been pregnant for?”

“Children,” Stiles stepped in. “Erica, Boyd, congratulations. I'm really happy for you two.”

“We didn't want to... make a big thing of it when everything was so... you know... but it's been really hard to keep it a secret!” she said.

“She sounds angry but she's really not,” Boyd said.

Erica elbowed him.

“No, guys,” Stiles said. “It's great. It's good. It's... I'm glad you told us. Maybe you can even have the wedding before Jackson leaves.”

They both looked at Jackson. “We'd like that.”

“I'd like that, too,” he said. “It's nice seeing everyone again.” 

Derek walked up to Jackson and placed a gentle hand on the back of his neck, a kind of scenting thing he did with most everyone in the Pack. But Jackson turned and wrapped his arms around Derek in the biggest bear hug Stiles had ever seen anyone give Derek. Derek looked mildly surprised before returning the hug in kind, whispering something in Jackson's ear. Jackson nodded once into Derek's shoulder before pulling away. He didn't even look embarrassed.

“So how far along are you?” Allison asked.

Stiles poked Isaac in the side to get his attention as everyone started asking Boyd and Erica questions about the baby and the wedding. Isaac lifted an eyebrow at him. “Where'd you put the mirror for the bathroom?”

“You want me to put it back?” Isaac asked softly.

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, I think it can go back now.”

Isaac tried to hide the smile the started to appear on his face. “Okay,” he said before heading into the other room.

Jackson went out the front door at almost the same time.

“Where's he going?” Stiles asked no one in particular.

“Lydia's here,” Derek said softly as he slid his arms around Stiles's waist, burying his nose into the space below Stiles's ear.

It made sense that Jackson would want a moment with Lydia before they were bombarded with the entire Pack. What didn't make sense was how touchy feely Derek was being. “You're acting funny,” Stiles said.

“My Pack is altogether. Jackson's here,” Derek breathed deep in his ear. “One of my betas is pregnant. You smell happier. I don't want to jinx it but... I think I might be happy.”

Stiles felt a blooming of warmth in his stomach and he couldn't help but pull back and give Derek a kiss on the lips. “I might be having that same feeling right now.”

“Are you all better now?”

Stiles chuckled. “My good days are starting to equal the bad days so... you know. I'm getting there. Depression takes a little longer to heal from than a cold.”

“Well,” Derek said, pressing their foreheads together and staring blurrily into Stiles's eyes. “We're here for you. Whenever. Always.”

“Yeah. I'm getting that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I plan on there being a sequel. This was very emotions heavy with very little plot or porn so, you know... I want those things. So. I mean, don't hold your breath because I've been chewing over the sequel for months now, but. The ideas are there. The words will come. Give them time.


End file.
